


tell me it's real

by astronomicallie



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Complete, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, M/M, Pining, Slow Dancing, first time posting in a Hot Minute let's see how this goes, i made felix my rep in my bl route and i galaxy brained this up, now THAT's a tag i wasn't expecting, spoilers for blue lions route up until ch. 9 (the ball)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-11-28
Packaged: 2020-09-24 05:49:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 36,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20353411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astronomicallie/pseuds/astronomicallie
Summary: When Byleth decides Felix should be the Blue Lions' representative for the White Heron Cup, he's already plenty irritated. Then he realizes he hasn't danced in ages, and if he wants to actually win this thing (out of spite, honestly), he needs help. With Byleth nimbly stepping away from the responsibility, he's stuck figuring out which of the Lions would be best suited for the job.Enter Sylvain, who'smorethan happy to take this arrow for the team and hopefully get brownie points with Professor. They just need to dance a couple times to ease Felix's rustiness, but things are never that simple, are they?Now with an epilogue.





	1. Chapter 1

“I was _joking_. You really couldn’t find anyone else?”

To her credit, Byleth rarely if ever shows any emotion or ulterior intentions thanks to her blank expression. Even months into her new career, each of the Lions have trouble figuring out just what their teacher thinks behind those almost unsettlingly blank eyes. 

That being said…

Felix can very clearly see a smirk playing at the corner of her mouth. It pairs astonishingly well with her serenely unbothered tone of voice when she replies, “Not anyone that would fit the role the better, no.”

_Bullshit_. Complete and utter bullshit. But Felix isn’t about to say as much to his professor out in the open like this; he doesn’t need yet another reprimand for his silver tongue. Byleth may not scorn him for such, but that doesn’t mean a passing Hanneman or Seteth wouldn’t. Still, he finds himself unwilling to keep the sharp disbelief out of his tone when he says, “_Me_. A dancer? Literally anyone else would be a better choice than me.”

Byleth cocks her head, smirk widening. “Dedue?”

_Damn._ “Almost anyone else. What about Annette?” Felix has seen that redhead sing and bop her way through daily chores enough to know she would be _elated_ to have such a role.

“She’s not one for the sword. I’d rather build on her sorcery than to nurture such a neglected talent of hers.”

“Mercedes?”

“Same as Annette. She’s much more attuned to the bow at this point.”

“Ingrid.”

Byleth hums, eyebrows raising as she reaches into a satchel to take out the journal that rarely leaves her side-- probably full of lesson plans, records of daily events, and paragraphs upon paragraphs detailing how best to torture the students she says she’s so fond of. Or maybe just Felix. “Are you really going to only list the ladies, Felix?”

Damn her. “_Ashe_.” He hates how desperate he sounds. Were he even a bit more religious, he would pray that the din around them from passing students is enough to mask it.

“As wonderful as that boy is, I’m worried he would stutter in his steps.” She isn’t even looking at him anymore, having flipped to a bookmarked page. Has she _actually_ written all this out? Surely, _surely_ then, she knows this is a terrible idea. “And I’m looking to win this.” 

_But you **won’t** with me! _Felix isn’t one to whine, but he sure as hell will refuse to budge until he goes through all his resources. “The boar.” As soon as the words leave his mouth, he knows how terrible of an idea it is. That beast, _dancing _for an audience? Were he not so frantically trying to avoid this coming responsibility, he would bark out a laugh. With a partner, perhaps the scene would change, but having Dimitri going solo for the Academy spells disaster.

Byleth regards him with a cool look in her blue eyes, the smirk gone. “_His Highness_ begged me not to choose him. I’m a merciful professor.” Fun, how she only uses the title to reprimand Felix for his own less-than-stellar nickname for the crown prince. It’s not like _she’s _the pinnacle of proper etiquette regarding royalty.

But oh, what Felix wouldn’t give to see that pathetic display. _Dimitri_ begged. Such knowledge solidifies his determination to avoid taking the same course of action. “Sylvain _must_ know how to dance, with all of his skirt chasing.”

She smiles, amusement flashing in her eyes. “He’d rather enjoy the dancer than be ‘some goof on a stage.’”

“Of course he would,” he mutters, crossing his arms. “You’re not doing him any favors putting _me_ out in the spotlight instead.” As far as he knows, he’s _definitely_ not one of the beautiful women Sylvain coos after so diligently. His glare remains, meeting Byleth’s unperturbed gaze as the silence passes. Like hell is he going to beg, but he has no other counterpoints here. It’s a siege of wills.

“You never know, you might look good out there,” she says, voice as calm as a breeze. Then, it takes on a more negotiating tone, something he expects more from Claude than a professor. “Come on, Felix,” Byleth nearly coos. “I would think you of all people would enjoy how dance could benefit your existing talents.”

“I fail to see how _dancing_ can help me swing a blade.”

“Ease of movement, fluidity of attack, better utilization of stance and footwork to help you remain light yet dangerous.” Each point ticks off on Byleth’s fingers. Honestly, she makes some good points. _Some_. 

_Damn_ her for playing into his interests! Felix scoffs, glare turning to some unfortunate wall. She’s not going to budge either, apparently. If this can help his own techniques, though… “_Fine_. Fine. I’ll be the representative.” _Is this what it feels like to sell your soul?_ He thought he would at least be older before he made such deals involving his free will.

“I knew you’d see sense,” his professor says, reaching to pat his arm. “It won’t kill you, you know. How many swordmasters do you think have the benefit of dance prowess under their belt?

He tenses under the physical praise, huffing and clenching his hand into his sleeve. _None, because it’s **ridiculous**. Deep breaths, Felix_. In, eyes closed, out, eyes open. “It would be best if you leave before I change my mind.”

Byleth clucks her tongue, shakes her head, and puts her journal away. She stares him down. “Always so abrasive. You better work on honing that charm of yours if you’re to woo the judges.”

“I’m not going to be _wooing_ anyone!” he says, perhaps a bit too loudly judging on how a passing pair of students pauses near them and leaves, tittering. _Just great_. “I’m charming enough,” he grumbles, at this point sounding like a child. Even in this miserable state he has enough mind to call himself out on such a blatant lie as that. At least he’s not begging.

“You are, you are,” the sincerity in her voice surprises Felix, and he looks up to meet an equally sincere gaze. Then she smirks again, the moment lost. “Just to a specific kind of person. It would benefit you to soften up, even a little bit.”

“Not happening.” He prides himself on the sharp edges of his personality. Easier to cut people out if he needs to. “Not a chance.”

“I hope you’ll reconsider, seeing as you’ll have to find someone to practice with.”

Fear. His eyes widen, arms falling to his sides. “I thought _you_ would oversee that.”

“Ah, but I’m busy with the other professors planning a joint seminar for the end of this month.” Byleth turns, lifting her hand in a small wave. “Don’t worry, you already have seven options to help you out.”

He bites out, sarcasm laced in his voice, “Dedue?”

She pauses, then shrugs. “Six, then. Find someone who can handle your _charm_ as is. They’ve stuck with you for this long, right?”

_More like dealt with_. As Byleth leaves, pulling some sort of trinket out of her satchel (probably to go return it to its rightful owner), Felix glares at the back of her dark head of hair with enough fire in his amber gaze to set her alight, were he more diligent in his magical studies.

He sighs and storms off to the training grounds, itching to swing at something.

* * *

Training goes terribly. He can hardly focus on his technique when he’s flipping through a deck of cards in his head, each detailing one of his classmates, to figure out who he should get to help. Part of him wants to refuse to even do that much. He doesn’t need _help_, of _course_ he knows how to dance. He’s a little rusty, but who cares? He’s not in it to win this damn White Heron Cup, and he certainly didn’t ask for the role to be thrust upon him.

At the same time… part of him wants to win this, just to spite his meddling professor. Or maybe he doesn’t want to see her disappointed in him. That’s the worst part-- no matter how infuriating she can be, disappointing her is _awful_. Especially since she’s gotten (marginally) better at showing how she feels, in the slight furrow of her brow and tilted head, as if wondering if there was something _she_ could have done to make the outcome better.

All the Lions have fallen under her reign in one form or another. Apparently, even Felix.

He nearly decapitates a training dummy, swearing under his breath and tightening his grip on his wooden sword. Others may throw the damn things, but Felix has learned to keep a grasp on them no matter what. Even if he admires Byleth’s style of fighting (how she incorporates her arms and legs, using her limbs to her advantage and schooling any _proper_ swordsman in a real fight), he prioritizes his sword above any other limbs. _I learned to thrust a sword before I learned to write my name,_ is what he had told Byleth.

(And she had the smallest, thoughtful frown on her face, eyeing him intently. It was one of the first times he’d been under the unwavering weight of one of her famous stares, and now he knew why many students squirmed and hurried off under it. Instead of flee, he had stared back, until she murmured, “Do you have any other ambitions?”)

“Why should I?” he asks, responding to nothing more than a memory. Thankfully, no one’s around to hear him. _Why should I, when this is all I’ve known for my entire life? I’m don’t **dance**, I **fight**._ He sighs, loosens his grip on his sword, and makes to leave for his dorm. Anywhere to avoid his classmates until he can figure out just which poor soul will have to deal with his rusty dancing shoes.

“Wow, this is the first time I’ve come in and seen you _leaving_ the training area.”

_Son of a--_ “My head isn’t in the right place today,” Felix replies curtly, looking past the shock of red hair and open attire. He has a _goal_, dammit, he’s not about to be distracted by--

“Last I checked, it’s right on your shoulders where it should be.” He doesn’t have to look to see the easy grin on Sylvain’s face. Probably paired with his arms up, hands behind his head because he can never resist the urge to take up as much space as possible.

Still, he glances at Sylvain. Suspicions: confirmed. “I shouldn’t have even bothered answering.”

“Yeouch,” Sylvain says, face falling, eyes going pleading and hurt, like some sort of more attractive version of puppy eyes. They’ve been honed over years of flirting with women (and sometimes scarecrows), but Felix has developed a proper immunity thanks to their extended history with each other. Or, at least, he can say _no_ to them, which is more than others can say. “I’m just trying to make conversation. It’s been a while since we’ve actually talked, y’know?”

“And it’s been a while since I’ve seen you practice,” Felix replies dryly. He still remembers Sylvain running after him the last time they met, calling, _I’ll come train too! Wait up!_ Was that the last time Sylvain found himself here? Over a week ago?

Oh, he _hopes_ not. Byleth would be sure to get on his ass for negligence towards his studies, and the goddess herself knows how reckless that flirt can be in battle. He needs all the training he can get, if he would just _realize_ it…

“Yeah, well, here I am now.” Sylvain’s hands drop, quick enough to reach and grab Felix’s arm as he passes, holding him there. “What’s on your mind? You sound pricklier than usual.”

Felix wrenches his arm from his grip with an automatic hiss. “Don’t touch me.” When Sylvain concedes and waits for an answer (not employing his guilt-grabbing eyes this time, Felix notices), he looks away. “It’s nothing.”

“I don’t even have to know you as long as I have to know that _nothing_ never means_ nothing_,” Sylvain says, some sort of wisdom in his voice. Probably from hearing the same thing from some of his many infatuations and paying dearly for it when he inevitably took the words at face value. 

“You’re right. It means _don’t ask about it_.”

“Is this about the White Heron Cup?”

Felix freezes, eyes widening. “_You know_?”

Sylvain shrugs easily. Everything he does has _ease_. “I asked Professor which lovely lady would be our representative. I should’ve realized she would go down the…” He looks up and down at Felix, probably recognizing his undeniable un-femininity. “... unconventional route.”

Felix can picture the interaction with stunning clarity: Sylvain, asking in a honeyed tone, and Byleth leveling him with a look that would turn less incorrigible men to stone. This time, he reaches for Sylvain’s arm, grip tight and eyes narrowed. His voice lowers, and less _reckless_ men would cower under the dark threat in his tone: “Did you tell anyone else?”

“Nah, but it’s not like I’m the only one she told.” Sylvain’s pout screams theatrics. “Sadly, I’m not her favorite student, so I don’t get any sort of spicy secrets.”

Felix glares at the suggestion that this ordeal could be a _spicy secret_. “Great,” he spits, releasing Sylvain’s arm like he’s retracting claws. “Just _great_.”

“So, who’s whipping you into shape?”

“What?”

“Who’s getting you back into the groove, Felix? I’m almost certain you’d be stiff as a board trying to dance right now. It’s not like your constant swinging has given you much time to appreciate the _finer_ points in life.”

“Like constant womanizing?” Felix retorts. _Insatiable_, he almost says, but he’s already apologized for that particular insult once. “The only _fine points_ I need in this life are that of steel.”

“Geez, I can’t imagine how your poetic speech fails to woo the ladies,” Sylvain mutters, and Felix nearly growls at his sarcasm. “Listen, I’ll find you a pretty girl to show you the ropes. Who knows, maybe you’ll finally loosen up.” That last immensely irritating line comes paired with an even more infuriating wink.

“Don’t you _dare_. I’m never talking to you again if you pull that stunt.”

Sylvain’s eyes widen marginally, and he raises his hands in mock surrender. “Damn, okay, no need to say anything we don’t mean. Alright, well… What about one of our girls?”

_Our girls_, he says, and Felix would snap at him to be more respectful towards their classmates if he didn’t know that Sylvain only says that because he would guard any of them with his life. Just as Felix would. And Dedue. And Ashe. And Dimitri. And any of the other girls, really. That’s one thing Byleth admires about their class: the cohesion, the loyalty. _Even from prickly pears like you, Felix._

“What about them?” he asks, much like Byleth in their earlier conversation.

“Annette likes music, right? She’ll dance with you.”

“I’m pretty sure I pissed her off.” At Sylvain’s shocked stare, he elaborates, “I was trying to be nice.” Yet she had insisted that she hated him, turning on her heel and storming off.

Sylvain sighs, rubbing his neck. “Leave it to _you_ to make that ray of sunshine _angry_. Fine, then. Mercedes--”

“-- thinks I’m her little brother. Not happening.” Too awkward.

They both stare at each other, each writing off the last girl on their list. Ingrid’s much better on a pegasus than her own two feet. 

Sylvain heaves a long-suffering sigh, shoulders slumping. “Alright, you give me no choice. I’ll have to bear the burden here.”

“_Excuse _me?” Nerves prick at Felix’s collar, deciding that he very much does _not_ like those words.

“I’ll have to teach you!” Sylvain slings an arm around his shoulders, grinning as easy as anything. “It’s a monumental task, but _someone_ has to do it for the sake of the Blue Lions! And besides--” he winks again “--Professor would appreciate me taking this arrow for everyone else.”

“You-- You’re--!!” Felix ducks out of Sylvain’s hold, sword raising, and even though it’s wooden, Sylvain steps back with his hands raised. “_No_. No way.”

“Who else, then? You’re not going to want to dance with _any_ guy from our house, right? And Professor’s busy, she told me that much.”

_Did she plant that idea in his head? Forget holding back my vitriol, she is getting the **extent** of--_

“Felix,” Sylvain says, and there might even be genuine _hurt_ in his voice. It snaps him out of his internal raging. “I’m just trying to help. Can you stop attacking me for a minute, here?”

Ah. The sword’s still pointed at him. Felix lowers it (albeit slowly) and tries, _tries_ to view him through a lens less tinted red. “You really want us to win this,” he says, no lift at the end to make it a question.

“Do _you_ want to see the professor’s face if we lose to the _Eagles_? You _know_ they’re throwing Dorothea out there.”

No, he doesn’t want to see that. Even if he won’t outright admit it.

But Sylvain must be able to read his damn mind, because he reaches his hand out, as if to shake. “Then I’ll help you get back into the dancing form, and you’ll win the Cup, and we’ll celebrate well into the night before the ball. Everyone wins.”

Felix stares at his hand, and sighs. He’s conceding a lot, today. They shake once, Felix’s grip stiff and Sylvain’s grip firm. Apparently, there’s a difference there, because Felix can feel it. If there are such nuances to _handshakes_, how in blazes is he supposed to figure out the nuances to dancing?

“_And_,” Sylvain adds, grin turning devilish, “if you win that Cup, _every_ girl will want to dance with you at the ball. When they ask who your _wonderful instructor_ was, you can send them my way.”

Felix drops his hand (nearly throws it down, really) with what he can only assume is a look of disgust on his face. He turns on his heel and stalks away, shoving the wooden sword into place with the others and ignoring Sylvain’s cries of _Come on, Felix, I’m kidding!_ as he finally makes his way back to his room.

_When will he get it through his thick skull I don’t **want** to dance with a girl?_ he grumbles internally. _And I’m sure as hell not becoming his **wingman**._

* * *

Felix grabs his dinner and takes it to his room, that night. He doesn’t feel like figuring out how many of the others know of his new representative status. It’s not even that he’s scared of their reactions-- he knows he’ll get a few teases at worst. He’s just got leftover anger in his head, directed at red hair and brown eyes. 

Those eyes, so smug, as if he was doing Felix a _favor_. Perhaps it is a favor, to both Felix and the rest of the Blue Lions, but it’s just something else Felix will have over his head, even if Sylvain won’t hold it up himself. 

That, and the thought of having to dance with Sylvain Jose Gautier makes his hands twitch. It isn’t the fact that they’ve known each other since they were kids. It’s not even because they’re both guys-- as if Felix would have any trouble dancing with another guy besides the initial avoid-such-interactions-as-much-as-possible reaction. No, in actuality it’s far simpler yet infinitely harder to wrap his head around. 

He scoffs at his own thoughts, as if that will chase them away.

“Felix? Is that you?”

He freezes like a deer meeting a hunter’s stare. He’d recognize that breathy voice anywhere. He sighs and turns, still holding his dinner (just a single plate, really). “Mercedes.”

“I was wondering why you weren’t in the dining hall,” she muses, serene as ever. 

_As if me being absent from such a place is a rarity_. No, he can’t be vicious to her. “I don’t feel like eating with others tonight,” he says instead, lifting his plate. _This food will get cold soon. It’s winter. Let me go._

“No one? But that can be so lonely, especially if you are already upset.”

Felix won’t bother asking her how she knows he’s got something else on his mind. Is he really that obvious, or are Mercedes and Sylvain just that emotionally intelligent? (He can see Mercedes being a master of such things, but _Sylvain_?) “Maybe I want to be alone.”

“Do you? I will let you go if you wish, but perhaps you would like to talk to someone.”

“I’m fine.”

“You are, though I am sure I am not the one you are trying to convince by saying that.”

Time to flip the conversation. “Why are you out and about, then? Wouldn’t Annette be lonely?”

“I was going to pray. The past month has been… difficult.” Even Mercedes’s pleasant, soft voice dips at that. Her lavender eyes droop. “I’ve been calling upon the goddess for protection in such trying times.”

That’s just like her. Protection, not strength. And probably not even protection for herself. No, Mercedes would pray for protection for their classmates, for the villagers and new orphans they’d left in the wake of the storm that was Remire Village. “I wouldn’t want to keep you from your prayers.”

“It is no trouble to me. If you need my help, I am here.”

Her infinite charity astounds him. “I’m alright, Mercedes,” he says, tone softening. The defensiveness won’t work, anyhow. “Really. Just frustrated with my situation, it’ll pass easily enough.”

“About the dancing, yes?”

_It’s not even the dancing anymore_. “You could say that.”

“I do wonder why the professor would choose you. But, then again,” she says with a smile that could melt ice caps, “she always seems to find the strengths in us that we could not see for ourselves. It’s wonderful, is it not?”

Felix sighs, his words clipped. “I fail to see dancing ever being a _strength_ of mine.”

“But it could be, with practice! I’m sure Sylvain will be a wonderful tutor.”

So that news got around too. Felix’s voice drops again, shifting into something muttered and angry. “He’s doing it for women. As always.”

The stern look Mercedes slips into almost makes him blanche. “Not so. Sylvain may have… extensive interests, but he’s also a loyal friend. I’m sure he’s trying to do this to ease your nerves of the whole ordeal.”

“I don’t need my nerves eased, I need to get it over with.”

“But if you think about it day and night, it will take forever to get over.” Mercedes reaches to brush some hair out of her face, lips pursing in thought. “What makes you think he’s doing it for, as people put it… ‘skirt chasing’?”

“He said so.”

“He says a lot of things, not all of them sincere. Surely you know that better than most of us.”

Quicker than he’s comfortable admitting, Felix defends with, “He’s sincere where it counts.” _Roughen that up, you soft idiot_. “Too sincere.”

“Ah.” Mercedes clasps her hands. “I apologize if you thought I was insulting him. That was not my intention, though…” 

He doesn’t like that look of realization in her eyes.

“He’s what’s on your mind, is that it?”

Time to choose his words carefully. No, he will not admit to anything embarrassing. “Of course. He’s always shirking his practice, going out and talking up women until he’s blue in the face, and he thinks _I’m_ the one that needs help?” He shakes his head, some sort of angry laugh coming from him. “That dastard--”

“_Felix_,” Mercedes admonishes quietly.

He falls silent, biting back the apology that springs to his lips. No, it’s enough that he stopped speaking at all.

“Does he know you want to help him?”

“_When_ did I say that?”

“You think he needs help. I can only assume you would want to give it.”

His silence must answer for him.

“I do not understand why you try so earnestly to push away the people you care about,” Mercedes says, “but I also do not judge you for it. I wish… I pray for you to believe that they aren’t going anywhere. There is no need to keep them an arm’s length away.”

_They aren’t, huh? Tell that to—_

“Since when did this turn into an analysis of my life, huh?” Felix snaps. “All I wanted was to eat my damn dinner in peace.”

And, damn it all, Mercedes doesn’t flinch. “I suppose I should thank you for proving my point.”

“You’re welcome.” The words feel cold on his tongue, sharp like icicles. 

“Good night, Felix.”

At her retreating form, where she walks for the bridge to the cathedral, Felix returns the gesture, though he supposes the only thing that can hear him is his dinner, now cold in his hands.

* * *

They’ve known each other since they were kids. Friends due to proximity, Felix will say. Their fathers forced them to play nice. But Sylvain’s memory is too good for his attempts to erase the past.

No, Sylvain was one of his best friends, the one he always came to when he was upset. When he and Dimitri had a falling out, or when he got frustrated at another loss to his brother, Sylvain would be there to help him out, or just get his mind off of the bad mood to begin with. They were closer than close, making promises they probably couldn’t keep like children always do, but one stuck out in particular. Felix fixated on it when they got older, when they both started developing… fancies.

Together forever. Such a childish promise, but one that he cherished all the same. In a different world, maybe it would have sounded romantic, for him to keep it so close to his heart for years on end. A world where Sylvain Jose Gautier _wasn’t_ the most women-infatuated man to exist. 

He remembers Sylvain falling for girls first, of the two of them. Over time, it seemed like there was a new one every week, or perhaps a new few. Felix himself remained stagnant in that regard, far more focused on training and dueling with his brother than _girls_. More time passed, and he wondered if he would _ever_ fall like that.

Then he asked Sylvain how he felt, and he learned of the sweaty palms and stuttering heartbeat, how one’s mind would almost always find a way to drift off to its infatuation. And he had looked at Sylvain, grinning and bright and charming as he was (and still is, damn it), and finally had a label to put on his own butterflies. Just his luck for him to fall so hard for _that_ boy. Just like him to have his own feelings spelled out _by said boy_.

Felix got over jealousy a long time ago. By now, the constant chatter about latest trysts has become annoying white noise, and his childish affections have been locked away. The latter was easier, when just about _any_ sort of softer emotion became locked away, buried with his brother after the Tragedy.

They all lost someone. Sylvain lost a friend, Ingrid lost a fiancé, Dimitri lost an entire family and even himself (though few believe Felix when he says as much), but Felix was the one who stuck spikes on his shell to keep anyone from getting the idea to ease in closer. 

Yet they were all there for each other anyway. A mutual suffering. And Sylvain was there, just like always, sincere in the few moments they were alone and he _wasn’t_ bragging about his adventures with the feminine. He stuck around, even managed to find a spot to sneak in around all the spikes. Infuriating and persistent.

Perhaps locking away a mindless crush was _easier_ due to Felix’s own change of temperament, but Sylvain’s undying loyalty made sure that the feelings never truly died. _He’s not even interested in men_, he would argue with himself, glaring up at the ceiling. _You’re friends. Sylvain’s there for his friends_.

Distance was the only solution he could come up with to get him used to the inevitability that Sylvain wasn’t _always_ going to be there for him. Especially when he finally found a girl he could commit himself to, could _actually_ love instead of just… entertain. And Felix hoped—_still_ hopes, though he’d never admit it out of fear of being perceived _soft_—that he _would_ find that girl, even if it tore Felix to shreds in the end. Sylvain deserves that much, deserves someone who sees him as him, not a Crest-bearing heir to House Gautier.

Even if Felix does not believe that _every_ woman Sylvain fools with is after his nobility, he can’t help but wonder if Sylvain himself believes he can find a girl like that. A _person_ like that.

Felix avoids things like _love_ and _romance_ like the plague. They’re nothing but distractions, keeping him from practicing to his full potential when they assault him with useless daydreams. He’s more useful, more _comfortable_, with a sword and a stern demeanor than with butterflies and stammered words. But during sleepless nights, kept up by his own incessant, immature, idiotic _feelings_, Felix still wonders if things between them would be different at all if Sylvain enjoyed the company of men.

Or, perhaps, if Felix could feel such attractions to anyone _other_ than his best friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i picked this game up kinda on a whim the day it came out and then i sunk in 120 hours on the golden deer and blue lions routes so, uh, oops? i got these two's paired ending for the gd route first, and that already killed me dead... but then i saw the blue lions paired ending and got sucked into the black hole that is sylvix. 
> 
> this is my first time posting my writing in a fat minute but i've been staring at these words for over a week and i need to just post them. believe me when i say this thing is actually getting finished... i have a vast majority written already, i'm just super slow in editing and college is starting and aaaAAAA--
> 
> my twitter is @astronomicallie and it is also painfully new (like 1 retweet as of posting new) so forgive me as i try to figure out that platform... comments/kudos are appreciated as always, i hope y'all have a good day and enjoyed!
> 
> ( title swiped from the seafret song of the same name because i'm soft )


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felix avoids the "dance" part of "dance lessons" for the better part of two days. He's still not prepared for the ordeal.

The next day, Monday, Sylvain tries to slide up beside Felix as classes let out, singsonging something about them having to decide a date for the lessons. Felix tries not to bristle _too_ harshly, having wrestled with himself over the idea for most of the night beforehand before finally passing out. Then he catches a glimpse of Dimitri’s royal blue cape and thanks the Goddess for giving him an out.

“Not now,” he says, beelining after their crown prince. “The boar and I are sparring today.”

Sylvain pouts and follows by his side. “Professor’s orders?”

Felix rolls his eyes, shaking his head. “No, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s doing it in an attempt to catch her eye, anyway.”

“Ah.” Sylvain nods, false wisdom oozing in his tone. “The classic showing off for a girl routine. At least it’s better than a dagger, though… I wouldn’t have pinned _Dimitri_ as the one to have a thing for older women.”

He laughs when Felix shoves him and growls, “It’s a schoolboy crush, nothing more. You _know_ you can’t tell me you never made a pass at a professor before.”

“I can’t, you’re right. Doesn’t mean I won’t tease His Highness about it.” Sylvain grins. “Later, though. I wouldn’t want to interrupt your precious swordplay.”

“How generous of you.”

“I know, right? I’m a paragon of respect for others’ time.”

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”

Sylvain pauses, then huffs. He cups his hands around his mouth. “Your Highness!”

Dimitri, still walking in front of them, turns with his eyebrows raised. “Sylvain?”

“Wait up! Felix can’t keep up with you if you’ve already got a head-start.”

Felix elbows Sylvain harder than he probably should in the side, but he takes it with only a wince, snickering all the while. It sours Felix’s mood further.

“Come find me later, alright?” he asks, grinning at Felix despite the fact he just got one of the sharpest elbows in the Academy embedded into his abdomen.

Felix responds simply enough with, “Alright.” Grateful for the boar (for once), he trots to catch up with him as he waits. “I could have caught up with you just fine if he wasn’t talking my ear off,” he mutters.

“I have no doubt you would have,” Dimitri responds with a smile.

Always so cordial, so _polite_. Felix wants to snap him out of it, to demand that he acts as he _truly_ is instead of put up such a false front. He gets enough of those _false fronts_ from Sylvain “Smiles At Everything And Everyone” Gautier. He _tsk_s, going quiet for the rest of the way to the hall where they can train sheltered from the winter air. _We don’t need to speak to clash weapons._

Hopefully Dimitri will be able to keep his maw shut.

The hall is quiet, not usually full right after classes let out, but that’s all the better for Felix. He doesn’t need people seeing him and thinking he tolerates the beast. There’s a reason one of the few times they interact is when Felix gets to slash at that grotesque mask of his. He goes for his usual sword while Dimitri takes up a lance.

“Should we find someone to oversee—”

“Of course not.”

Dimitri pauses, then settles his stance. “So be it.”

Why bother? They can call it off when they want. Or, at least, _Felix_ can. He supposes it would be tragic if the boar lost himself here, of all places, and skewered him with a _wooden_ lance. With his strength, there’s no doubt Dimitri could perform such a horrific feat, after all. Then Felix wouldn’t have to figure out this dancing nonsense, this dancing with _Sylvain_ nonsense.

He can’t decide which outcome he would rather avoid right now. Enough thinking.

He advances, feinting to the left. Dimitri, of course, falls for it, barely recovering enough to jump back when Felix instead slashes from the right. Perhaps they should have warmed up, considering Felix never eases into sparring. No, it’s all or nothing with his effort, and he’d prefer to give _all_ when he’s against someone. Even if—_especially_ if that someone is the crown prince.

He slashes once more, a solid _clack_ resounding in the space as Dimitri blocks him with that infuriating lance of his. Felix would never give up the sword, no, but _lances_ are a very long pain in his ass. He growls, stepping back.

“You’re not usually this frustrated so quickly,” Dimitri notes, and instead of the expected amusement in his tone, there’s concern. His expression remains neutral as they circle. “Bullion for your thoughts?”

Felix scoffs. “They’re not worth that much.” And he’s desperately trying to get _out_ of his head right now. His blows come in a flurry, one after the other, because his speed is his greatest asset against _anyone_, particularly brutes whose strength could break both of these weapons they’re holding in two if he let loose.

Dimitri, damn him, takes most of it with ease, though when Felix finally lets up, he notes tension in the line of the prince’s shoulders. Strain.

“You’re certain?” Dimitri asks. “Did Sylvain rile you up before you came here?”

It’s an awful decision, really, because as soon as Felix hears the name his eyes narrow. Instead of answering, he lunges forward again. He hears Byleth in his head, scolding him. _Your speed isn’t everything. Unrelenting attacks won’t work all the time. You need to attack smarter as well._

Dimitri blocks easily again, settling them into a stalemate, but Felix doesn’t give in just yet. He stays there, foolishly pushing against a beast’s strength, until Dimitri shoves him off and swings the lance, striking Felix in the side. First hit.

“Felix,” he says, bewildered, “You—”

“Shut _up!_” Felix _hates_ how his side twinges. His words drip venom. “We’re here to _spar_, boar. Stop fucking it up with your voice.”

Something shadows over Dimitri’s face at that, and those blue eyes darken. Nothing as raw and untethered as Felix has seen elsewhere (Remire Village comes to mind), but there’s anger there nonetheless. He rears back with his lance, attacking with a basic spearing maneuver that Felix sidesteps. Then he takes another swipe, missing and leaving himself open. When Felix strikes him in return, they feel even again.

For a moment, at least.

They continue until they’re panting, until they’re sweaty and disheveled, until Felix’s arms ache from trying to block the heavy blows and Dimitri’s eyes start to lighten up again. There’s no winner. Not today. Definitely not Felix, because he’s still got lingering embers burning in his veins, the last remnants of negativity still curling around him.

At first, this was a convenient way to avoid Sylvain. But, foolishly, Felix hoped that he’d be able to push out his frustrations if he pushed his body to its limits, as he so often does.

When Dimitri turns his back to him to put away the training lance, he asks, “You never fail to lash out, do you?”

Felix puts his own weapon up less-than-gracefully, the wood clattering. “You don’t get to scold me for _my_ behavior.”

“I’m not.” Dimitri’s eyes aren’t angry when they meet Felix’s again. They’re probing, concerned all over again, and it damn near makes his blood boil. “You’re not going to tell me what’s wrong.” His voice remains even, no hint of a question in his tone.

“You know me so well.” Few would dare to toss cruel sarcasm at the prince, but Felix is not one to blindly follow the crowd. What would he say, anyway? _I’ve been pining for our childhood friend for years, and now I have to deal with dancing with him to practice for a useless competition despite the fact that prolonged contact with him is the **exact** thing I’m trying to avoid._ Actually, that doesn’t sound half bad as an explanation, but Felix doesn’t vent like that. He _acts._

“Of course I do,” Dimitri says. “I’ve known you for years.”

“It’s a shame I can’t say the same.”

Dimitri flinches at that, and Felix allows himself to take _that_ victory even as another part of him aches with guilt. “Well,” he says, tone going stiff and _royal_. “It would do you well to find something to ease your mind of whatever ails it. You were sloppy today. I’ve rarely known you to fight _sloppily_.”

He turns and leaves, turning his head just before he steps out of view to say, "You have my thanks for sparring with me. I feared you may not show up."

Felix feels all the fight leave him as soon as he loses sight of Dimitri. The child in him wants to apologize to his friend, but the adult in him says, _No. Stay far away from that beast. It’s a matter of time before he loses himself again, and the only Goddess herself knows if he’ll ever come back from it._

Perhaps Mercedes’s observation of Felix’s relationships was right, after all. _They aren’t going anywhere,_ she said. Bullshit. Of course they are. Sylvain’s one good, honest woman away from forgetting about Felix entirely. Dimitri is another disaster away from forgetting everything he has and is. His own demeanor is just another practice in self defense. Nothing more.

When Felix leaves in search of Sylvain (because he doesn’t go back on his word, dammit), he sees a good number of students practically cower under his gaze. His scowl’s on full display today, apparently. He tames it down enough by the time he finds his target so that said target doesn’t ask him what’s wrong, but only barely.

“My room,” he says. “Tomorrow night.”

His mind will be _eased_ when all of this is over with.

* * *

Sylvain pouts at first, mourning the loss of an opportunity to go out, but Felix refuses to give him any ground. Partially because he doesn’t care that Sylvain would rather be out wooing people instead of staying with him, partially because he cares _too much_ and wants to ignore said complaints ever happened. Besides, they have very little to do in the moments before they go to bed besides study… and neither of them are particularly diligent students.

Felix insists on them using his room, citing the fact that it’s commonplace for Sylvain to sneak back against curfew anyway, and their rooms are hardly far apart from one another. That, and Felix doesn’t feel like having to be the one sneaking back, especially coming from _Sylvain’s_ door.

Hardly anyone would come to any conclusion of an intimate nature to explain such events, but his cheeks flare up thinking about it anyway. Not in front of Sylvain, Goddess forbid, but the blush still makes him want to decapitate another training dummy.

The atmosphere feels peaceful enough. Felix has a single candle lit, flickering low light over the room, and moonlight makes up for the slack. It plays over their faces, casting darker shadows than there would be if they had chosen to do this during the day. Maybe this will make it harder to watch their feet, but Felix isn’t about to go rummaging for even more candles, lest he risk Sylvain making some joke about _setting the mood_.

There’s just one hitch in this plan that prevents the night from going smoothly. (Besides the glaring issue of Felix’s feelings, that is.)

“Why in the hell are you the lead?”

“Because I’m taller.” As if to prove his point, Sylvain looms over Felix, hands on his hips. “Duh. It only makes sense you’d be the lady.”

“Sylvain,” Felix bites out, closing his eyes for the briefest of moments, “is either of us a woman?”

“Uh, no.”

“Then why are you insisting one of us be _the lady_?!” he hisses, glaring up at Sylvain and _damn_, he doesn’t worry about his height much if at all, but now he wishes he didn’t look so much like a small cat hissing up at a lion. Their heights aren’t even that different, but with Sylvain lording it over him like he does, the gap seems larger than it actually is.

He must be intimidating enough, because Sylvain takes a step back, expression thoughtful. “Huh. You’re right about that. But still.” He straightens, shoulders rolling back. “I’m taller, so _I’m_ the lead.”

“I’m going to have to lead when I perform.”

“Then you’ll have to learn from my example.”

“Like hell I will!” In literally any other scenario, Felix wouldn’t be so adamant about such an inane thing. But Sylvain’s entitled attitude about his role in a _dance_ of all things is going to be the death of him. Remembering their situation, he lowers his voice once again. “If your stupid _ego_ won’t let you concede this _miniscule_ point, I’m going to find a new partner.”

“Where? We’ve been through this: you need me.”

Felix huffs, but cuts himself off before he can say anything too stupid and prickly for even himself. Sylvain has him in a box, there.

“You know how to lead anyway, right? This is just to get you used to the steps again.”

With a groan that he actively must tamper down so that it doesn’t wake the dead, Felix spreads his arms in defeat. “Damn it all. Alright. Then let’s dance, Sylvain.”

Felix is thankful he was able to snag another day to work up the nerve to have to dance with the object of his affections and _not_ turn into a stupid, flustered mess. He holds his composure well in any other situation, but dancing is far, _far_ different. Because _dancing_ requires _physical contact_. With a partner, but not his _partner_.

And sure, they spar together. But that’s not _dancing_. That’s not gentle hands and mirrored steps, pleasant music and easy swaying. That’s a _fight_, and Felix is used to _fights_.

He’s a mess in every sense of the word, but at least he’s not stammering like some flustered lovebird. He’s had enough practice over the years to tame that unfortunate side effect of infatuation.

When Sylvain steps in close to him again, Felix leans back. “What are you doing?”

The blank stare Sylvain gives him rivals their professor’s. “Trying to dance?” He sighs and runs a hand through his hair, shaking his head. “Damn, good thing you’re performing solo. But you’re going to have to let me touch you if you want to do this.”

And there it is, the exact reason he’s been avoiding confronting this situation for the better part of 48 hours. “Of course. Right.”

Thank the Goddess for the low lighting. Felix feels the beginnings of hot prickles crawl up his neck—a blush, before they’ve even started dancing. There’s no way Sylvain can see it thanks to his collar, but he still shoots a sudden prayer out of mental reflex. _So much for not blushing_. He’s not stammering. That’s… that’s still going for him.

_Pathetic. This is what it takes?_

“Felix?”

He looks up. Sylvain holds his hand out, eyebrows raised expectantly.

“You have to take it, or we’re not going anywhere.”

Small miracles. Felix steels himself and takes his hand, leaving room for the Goddess between them. Sylvain’s other hand finds his waist, and Felix rests his own free hand on his new mentor’s shoulder, yet again becoming aware of their height difference. (Which should have no bearing on who leads, but if they argued any further he would have woken someone up with his shouting.)

In this position, Sylvain pauses, and Felix’s frustration mounts ever higher. “What’s the problem?”

Sylvain sighs and shakes his head, mouth scrunching over to one side in thought. “I wish we had music.”

“It’s not hard to count off beats.”

“But that’s _mechanical_, Felix. Dancing should be natural, flowing, so you can sweep them off their feet--” Sylvain looks down at the unamused gaze he earns and huffs out a laugh, shrugging. “Whatever. Just follow me.”

“As if you give me much choice.”

“_You’re_ the one who took my hand, remember?” He steps, starting a waltz.

Felix finds himself automatically counting, mechanical dancing be damned, and isn’t able (or willing) to devote attention to responding that _no, that’s not what he meant_. He tries as hard as he can _not_ to stare at their feet, but finds himself glancing down anyway, focused intently on not making a fool of himself. Goddess, it _has_ been a long while since he’s done this, hasn’t it? Remarkable. And he has his professor to thank for this mess.

Well, not the _entire_ mess.

It takes him a moment to realize, in the quiet of his room, Sylvain is humming. It’s a small, slow tune, but a tune nonetheless. It seems to help their technique significantly, if Felix can believe Sylvain’s smile.

He _does_, shockingly. It’s soft, content, and Sylvain has his eyes closed as he leads, probably envisioning the steps in his head. Or maybe he’s just imagining some pretty girl in his arms instead of Felix, refusing to bring himself out of his own fantasy.

Felix, to his credit, does not deflate at this thought, but he _does_ become remarkably aware of how he’s just… staring at Sylvain’s face. At the lines of it, his brow and nose and mouth, how they come together to form an irritatingly handsome picture that he _never_ lets anyone forget. How his lashes, though not particularly long, fall. How his hair has lost some of its life throughout the day, slumping more into his face, making him look somehow even more at ease and comfortable as they step _one two three, one two three_…

_Damn you. Damn you, and damn me for not getting over this in all the years I’ve had._

He’s lost his count. He nearly trips over Sylvain’s foot, swearing.

Sylvain opens his eyes with a grin. “No worries. You just need to…” He trails off, frowning down at Felix. “What’s with _that_ look? Am I really that terrible?”

So he’s scowling. Perfect. Felix looks away from those terribly caramel eyes with a short shake of his head, trying to tame his expression into something more neutral. “No. You’re… this is fine.”

“Right.” Sylvain’s tone suggests he doesn’t believe that for a second.

Felix isn’t sure what _he_ believes.

“Try to loosen up. If you dance so stiffly, it’ll hurt when you end up stepping on your partner’s foot.”

“How am I supposed to do that?”

“Yeah, you’re not one to give up control so easily.” Sylvain murmurs, almost to himself—like Hanneman, when he starts going on about a person’s Crest. He studies him, but Felix can’t bring himself to meet his stare and challenge him to look away. “Maybe you _should _be leading.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to say, Sylvain.”

“So you have. That will be tonight’s lesson, that’s what you can learn from this.”

“What are you getting on about?”

“_Loosen up,_ Felix.”

Felix finally brings himself to glare up at him, but finds any sort of retort dying in his throat. If he could just _get it together_, this wouldn’t be as torturous as it currently feels.

Sylvain grins, bright as the sun. “It’s alright to rely on others, you know. Ballroom dancing isn’t a solo activity; you’re going to have to follow a lead every once in a while.”

“Have _you_ ever followed a lead?” Felix asks, though he’s lacking in venom to lace the words with.

“No,” Sylvain replies, and adjusts his grip on Felix’s (damningly sweaty) hand, “but I could.”

“How do you know that?”

There’s a pause, weighted without the aid of music (hummed or not) to break the silence. “I just know.” Sylvain’s voice remains light as ever, though his hesitation betrays something else. Something Felix can’t discern.

_Way to elaborate_. But Felix doesn’t want to prod further, and he absolutely _shouldn’t_ ask who Sylvain would let lead him. Would they have to be taller to fit his absurd criteria for a lead? That would narrow the choices significantly, and he can’t think of any _woman_ who is taller than Sylvain (without the aid of heels)… Perhaps his mind is too addled to remember.

He remains quiet, trying not to go too far down the hypothetical path.

Sylvain starts humming again, and they go through the same repetitive motion for a few more cycles, until Felix stops messing up their feet. It’s late, far too late, and Felix hates how easy this all is, how easy it is to go into the flow of something instead of planting himself in the middle of a river and refusing to be toppled. His guard isn’t down, no—but he’s not as tense as he should be in this situation.

Then, Sylvain changes their steps. Rather, he stops. “Do you have to dip for the Cup?”

Ah, _there’s_ the tension, holding him still as he gives Sylvain a warning glare. “Don’t even think about it.”

“Why not? There’s no better way to show trust in your partner.”

Felix takes in the devilish grin on his face, which almost _always_ means trouble... He tells himself every day that grin drives him to madness with how obnoxious it is. But, relaxed as he is, he can’t lie to himself and say it _doesn’t_ look wonderful when he allows himself to linger on it. “You’re so full of shit,” he says, glad that the warmth clouding his logic hasn’t affected his pointed speech yet. “_I’ll_ be doing the dipping if I have to do that for the damn judges.”

“Such harsh words! You wound me, Felix.” Sylvain pouts at him. “You trust me, right?”

He does, he _does_. Even if he wishes he doesn’t. It would be easier, _so much easier_, to not. But the trust was there before the love, acting as the foundation for the even more dangerous step. It’s not like Felix can _lie_ to him—he doesn’t want to know how Sylvain’s face would fall. Another time, he’d be strong enough to take that, but right now, tired from trying to catch all the damn butterflies in his stomach, he can only say, “Of course I do.”

“We don’t _have_ to do it. I just…” Sylvain looks away, clearing his throat. Felix’s eyes follow the motion of it. _Is he catching a cold? **Now?** We’re from Faerghus, we’re used to winter weather. _“I think it’d be fun. If you want to try it. An enlightening experience, maybe.”

Felix is plenty enlightened. He doesn’t need to be dipped to know that he has tragically fallen for the man dipping him.

“Alright. Let’s try it,” Felix says, while the rational side of him screeches in protest. Is he a masochist? Is that what this is? Perhaps there’s a certain thrill in toeing the line of his own tolerance, in leaning over the edge and seeing how far he can go before he topples over… He picks up the slack on his harsh speech with: “If you drop me, so help me, I will rip out your—”

“I _won’t_ drop you, Fe.” Whatever shit-eating grin Sylvain had has disappeared, replaced by something soft and warm. Maybe he’s trying to charm Felix into this… but Felix hasn’t known him to employ something that feels so _real_ for his flirtations. (Then again, he doesn’t pay much attention to Sylvain’s flirtations at all.)

“Okay.” Felix swallows and repeats, “Okay.”

“So, you’re going to keep one leg straight, alright?”

“Alright…”

“Now, hang onto me, and…”

Sylvain steps out and leans, and despite the past few moments discussing this very thing, Felix finds himself panicked by the sensation of falling. His nails dig into Sylvain’s shoulder, eyes going wide as they dip, and _dip_.

Sylvain chuckles, but the noise shakes. Perhaps Felix is heavier than expected. “I’ve got you, calm down.”

“Are you planning to bring me all the way to the fucking floor?” he snaps, though the harsh tone he intends withers away as the words wheeze out from the sudden tightness of his throat. It’s hard to breathe when their faces are so close. When Sylvain’s _eyes_ are so close. Damn that face, _damn that face!_ The least the Goddess could have done to help him with this situation is ensure Sylvain _didn’t_ turn into one of the most handsome people at the monastery.

Miserably, Felix notes that even that would have done little to dissuade his mindless heart. But at least he’d have another reason to stack against himself to avoid entertaining such fantasies, no matter how shallow.

Sylvain suspends him there as he pointedly ignores his demand, hand splayed across Felix’s lower back. Felix might die like this, with the knowledge he can be held up so easily. He hopes beyond hope that Sylvain misses how his face betrays him—it goes bright red as he shoves _Sylvain can hold me up_ into whatever dark closet of his mind his affections are locked. Perhaps he could blame it on the singular candle.

It’s silent for a moment as they just… stare at each other.

Sylvain huffs out his nose, a quiet laugh that plays over Felix’s face because _Goddess, he is **so close**. He is right there, his mouth is **right there**._ “You look shocked.”

That’s a word for it. Electrified. “I...” Felix swallows. “I’m concentrating.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.” Goddess, if he leaned up just a little more, he could finally figure out the answer to the damn question that’s been pinging around in his head since he first realized just how much of a hold this man has on his life: _What if?_

But he has spent years building his self control, and he _knows_ that whatever he would do without it would lead to disaster. He prefers action to words, yes, but some things just shouldn’t be conveyed at all. He refuses to dive off of this particular cliff.

Sylvain rises, bringing them back up, and Felix finds himself light on his feet, still gripping Sylvain like a tether as they resume. _Pathetic. Was I really waiting all these years for this **one** moment to make a fool of myself?_

“Thanks for trusting me.” The smile that accompanies those words could easily do Felix in, and he would thank the Goddess for taking him out of his misery.

But it doesn’t, so he won’t. “You didn’t leave me much choice.”

They come to an abrupt stop, Sylvain sighing. “Oh, come on, I didn’t force you to—”

“No, no.” Felix steps further back than is probably necessary when Sylvain lets go of him. Goddess, he is _so flustered_. Sweaty palms, fast heartbeat, heat spread over his collarbones. “You…” _Gah._ On one hand, he grapples with his own damn self over saying or not saying the idiocy that’s about to fly out of his mouth. On the other, he’s not even good enough with words for whatever comes out to sound _right_. He reaches to dig a hand into his own hair, setting it even looser than it already was after a whole day of being tied up. His hand falls when he looks back to Sylvain, and he feels a few locks of hair come to graze his jaw. “It’s impossible _not_ to trust you.”

Sylvain’s eyebrows fly up; now _he’s_ the one that looks shocked. Maybe even speechless. Did he understand that? And, if so… is it really that hard to believe? Perhaps it’s hard to believe that Felix said it at all. He sure as hell can’t believe it, himself.

He’ll find the mind to be proud of finally shutting Sylvain up after this ordeal passes. He swallows again. “It’s late.”

Still, silence. Sylvain’s lips work, as if trying to get something out, but he blinks owlishly. What finally comes out is, “Guess so.”

Felix can’t figure out what to do with his hands, so he gestures vaguely to his bed. _Ah, shit, not like—_ Clenching his jaw, he explains, “We should get to bed. Classes tomorrow.” He keeps his sentences short, concise; he’s already said far more than he’s ever meant to, whether Sylvain knows it or not.

“Right.” Sylvain nods. His face shutters back to a less surprised expression, but his voice still sounds dazed in what little he says. Like the Goddess herself just came down and kissed him square on the mouth. “Right.”

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

It takes another moment for Sylvain to step out, footsteps fading away. Felix shuts the door behind him and swallows past the odd affections clawing up his throat and begging to be heard. He storms away from it and starts muttering a string of swears directed more at himself than anyone else as he disrobes. With his hair down and bedclothes on, he slips under the covers and stares at the ceiling. He tries to forget the feeling of being suspended practically in time like that, and how unsure his own heartbeat had been as he counted _one two three, one two three, one two three_…

He doesn’t succeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me voice: i'm gonna write a 3k dance fic and that'll be the end of it  
me, now, with a 22k draft going: ah
> 
> thank you all for the warm reception for the first chapter, though!!!! i almost responded to literally every comment but then i worried that'd be corny, heh... but each and every one of them is appreciated c:
> 
> you may have noticed that when i first posted this, there was a set chapter count. that went out the window when i tried to block this thing into chapters for real, and i'm pretty certain there will be more than 4. nothing too overwhelming, but definitely not 4. i wanted to post this one because i love this first dance. from now on, though, i'll be in college... so updates MIGHT turn into weekly things.
> 
> oh, and i'm slowly getting more active on my twitter mentioned in the past note, so i'll be there stumbling my way through tweets when i have free time
> 
> the next chapter notes won't be so long, i promise,, anyway, have a good day!! i hope y'all enjoyed this chapter, we :clap: love :clap: pining :clap:


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felix and Sylvain continue dancing. The Lions clear out the remnants of Remire Village. Felix finds himself further indebted to Sylvain.
> 
> Byleth is tired.

They dance together nightly. Though Sylvain doesn’t pull anymore tricks like he did the first night, Felix still finds himself uneasy whenever they first step into each other’s spaces. He’s far less flustered than the dipping situation, thank the Goddess herself, but he can easily pinpoint the remnants of his affliction if he spares the effort.

Every night, he expects Sylvain to call him out on how his hands clam up, or how his jabs are few and far between. Every night, his expectations come up short. Perhaps Sylvain’s saving that knowledge for later, as some sort of blackmail. _Or perhaps_, he tries to tell himself, _he doesn’t notice, and I’m safe_.

Sylvain doesn’t complain about missing dates on the second night. On the third, Felix asks him about it up front because yes, apparently he _does_ like to inflict pain on himself. It’s a good way to remind himself just how things work, how they’re meant to be, how they always _will_ be.

But instead of pouting and lamenting the loss, or grinning and making some idiotic comment about being sought out because he’s _hard to get_, Sylvain just shrugs and says, “I’m busy.”

Instead of twisting until it hurts, Felix’s heart gives a kick that he desperately tries to ignore. He resists the urge to rake his hands through his hair because he needs control over at least _one_ thing during these damn lessons, and if that thing is how well-kept his hair is, then so be it. Every night before Sylvain has knocked on his door, he has tied the locks back into their usual knot, making sure not a strand is loose anymore.

“Why?” Sylvain asks. _There’s_ the telltale mischief in his eyes as he leans in with a smirk. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”

_No. Yes. No. Yes._ “As if I could ever get rid of you.”

He gets a proud smile for that, something broad and bright. “Damn right. You’re stuck with me.”

_Am I, now?_ Felix takes Sylvain’s hand, aching for this to be done already. “Come on, then. Less chatter.”

“You know…” Sylvain says, hand finding Felix’s waist just as easy as their first practice. His tone oozes the mischief his eyes betrayed. “Conversation is a wonderful way to keep things light between you and your partner and reduce the awkwardness that comes with having to dance among your—”

“_Sylvain_.”

A laugh. “Alright, alright.”

They dance the same steps, with little to no real error now that they’ve revived the muscle memory. “I could argue _this_ is plenty awkward.”

“It’s only awkward if you point out the fact that it’s awkward.”

“Well shit, Sylvain, it looks like we’re awkward.”

“No we’re not. I’m giving you a do-over.”

Felix tries to frown at Sylvain, but fondness floods through him when he sees that wry smirk and keeps him from finishing the move. He keeps his expression carefully neutral as he asks, “If conversation helps it, why don’t you speak more?”

Sylvain shoots back, nearly immediately, “Why don’t _you_?”

That answer is… Felix supposes it’s intended to be obvious, but really, he has no clear clue. He looks away, though it’s hard to look completely away from Sylvain now without turning his head at a right angle. The space left between them has lessened over the past two nights. Nothing scandalous, nothing to make Felix’s face light up, but enough to make him feel warm, and soft, and _sappy_. He settles for staring at Sylvain’s shirt. “I’m not one for conversation.”

“See, I knew you’d say _that_, so I tried to avoid pissing you off.” Sylvain leans in, and Felix leans back. “That’s tonight’s lesson: know your partner, so you know what rules to follow and what ones to break around them.”

It’s amazing, how he can make complete and utter horseshit sound like sage advice.

“That, and you just told me ‘Less chatter’, so.”

Felix can’t tell if Sylvain’s impression of him for just two words is stunningly accurate or just offensive. Perhaps it’s offensive _because_ it’s stunningly accurate. He rolls his eyes, fighting off embarrassment at the fact that he actually forgot he said that. “See. I was testing you. And you passed.”

“With flying colors.”

“Don’t push your luck.”

Sylvain pulls back, probably because his neck hurts from leaning in just as much as Felix’s does from leaning out. “But,” he says, suddenly softer, “if you do want to talk, you know I’ll listen.”

Felix looks down at their feet because what in the _fresh hell_ is he supposed to say to that? They were joking, they were being _friends_, and then… Then! He snorts, shaking his head, hoping that’s enough of a response. It feels false.

Sylvain’s grip on his hand tightens a fraction. “I _want_ to listen, Felix.”

Felix can’t do much except squeeze his hand back, stubbornly keeping his gaze on his feet.

Sylvain sighs, and they don’t talk much after that.

* * *

Felix finds himself gestured over to a table of Lions for breakfast that Sunday. Against his better judgement, he joins them. Even he knows how shitty it would look to leave his house in the dust while he goes off and does something else with his time. _Lone wolf_, Byleth had called him once upon a time. _Hunting for yourself and yourself alone_.

He would prefer if the Ashen Demon, of all people, would refrain from comparing him to a beast. Wolves are pack animals, anyway; he can work with the team as the situation calls for it.

It’s the monastery’s free day, though that does not always mean a respite. No, Byleth prefers to keep them in practice as much as possible, be that from plotting out one of her seminars or marching them to deal with problems around the area. Each of the Lions is already as awake as can be, as today they’re heading into real-world battle practice to help disperse bandits terrorizing the remains of Remire Village.

“Are you alright, Felix?” Mercedes asks, and Felix wonders when they’ll be able to talk without her doting over him. “You look tired.”

“I’m alright,” he says, setting his food down and leaving no room for the others to chime in about how awful he apparently looks. His sits next to Dedue—though he has called him horrid things, he knows the retainer won’t prod him with unnecessary interrogation. “Late night studying.”

“Probably should have waited for something like that _tonight_,” Annette chides, waving her fork that currently impales whatever sweet breakfast treat the chefs managed this morning. Her grey eyes show none of the utter hatred she’d promised him, but Felix isn’t about to question her and get yelled at in front of everyone else.

“Yeah, well.” He shrugs, thoroughly ending the conversation as he quickly tucks in to his own food. _My mouth is full. Just about all of us are nobles. Have some manners_.

“Should we alert the professor?” Dimitri asks, concern in his voice that makes Felix want to flip the table. _Why do you still care?_ “If you’re too tired for today’s mission, it would be best to avoid… accidents.”

“I’ll be _fine_,” Felix snaps, lashing out just as Dimitri had accused him of the last time they spoke. _No, he doesn’t care. He just wants to make sure we perform well for the professor. That has to be it. **Has** to be._ “Stop worrying over stupid scenarios. This is routine. Nothing like a _real_ challenge. If these bandits get the better of me, I’ll eat my own sword.”

“A remarkable feat,” Dedue murmurs, a hint of warning to his tone. Ah. Right. Felix probably shouldn’t snap at the prince when his loyal vassal sits right _there_. He’s an asshole, but not an asshole with a death wish.

Felix grumbles, though there’s not much of anything else to be said. Dimitri, unphased, starts detailing tactics and reminders for the coming battle, as he always does before these things (eager to please Byleth with their preparedness, no doubt).

Sylvain’s the last to join their table, sitting across from Felix and grinning.

“Lazy,” Felix mumbles, and Sylvain seems to be the only one that catches it, rolling his eyes good-naturedly and leaning forward on his elbows to join in whatever other conversation’s going on. His foot nudges Felix’s, and Felix lightly kicks his back. It’s nice to go back to their normal, after the mess that has been the past few nights. It’s nice, to go back to _Lazy_ instead of _Your eyes haunted me until dawn_.

* * *

Clearing out the bandits should be routine. Easy. Simplistic. But the environment keeps everyone on edge. Not even a month before, they’d had to cut down once-innocent villagers, driven mad by forces they could not begin to understand. Felix chances a glance to Dimitri as they emerge into the village, wondering if he’ll cry something else beastly, but all he sees is one of those uncannily strong hands grip tighter onto his lance as the boar looks straight ahead with a clenched jaw. It’s worse than his cracked ramblings because like _this_, it’s a mystery as to what’s going on in his mind.

Mercedes has a much more affected look upon her face, a stricken remembrance as her lips move wordlessly, and Felix finds himself glad she has the Goddess to bring her some sort of solace.

The ashes have settled, but that almost makes the sight worse. Somewhere that was once full of life, torn apart for… what? An experiment? And now, instead of respecting the area, it’s been occupied by pests. Vermin. Does the lingering sense of dread not bother them? Or do they thrive on it, feeling powerful as they live surrounded by wreckage?

Contrary to the popular belief, Felix has _ideals_, just not those that glorify knighthood. His ideals stand for the protection of those who can not protect themselves, the snuffing out of those who bring blights such as the one that hit this village to those who just try to live their lives. The area still makes his blood hum, on the verge of boiling. Dastards. All of them.

They hear the first cry of a bandit, alerting the others in this shameful clan, and the battle begins with a lone arrow shooting aimlessly overhead. _Nice shot_.

Byleth leads them expertly, as always, and they’re able to rout the mismatched misfit club that are these spineless cowards with little complications. He leaps to Annette’s aid when a sword-bearing thief gets too close, gritting his teeth as he dispatches him quickly. He hears a cry, glancing to see Byleth whipping that Relic of hers to disarm a bandit with one of Ashe’s arrows sticking out of his shoulder.

Things are going well. As expected. He sees little challenge in exercises such as these, but it does bring some sense of fulfillment to rid the area of nuisances that can only think to prey upon the weak. With a scan to his surroundings, he pauses and waits for Byleth to give him his next orders. Yes, he’s a _lone wolf_, but the professor’s leadership is better heeded than not. They seem to have the environment under control at the moment, and he can’t see anyone who needs his sword. It’s going very well, actually. It’s a shame their talents must be wasted on scum like this.

“Felix!”

With a sound of affirmation, he listens for her next orders, but what she cries next aren’t orders. Well, perhaps they are, but not ones he’s used to hearing.

“_Behind you!_”

He stiffens, pivoting, and the shriek of steel on steel that follows his blocking motion rings in his ears. It’s a straggler, someone who was hiding in the passing houses instead of attacking them head on. _Stupid_. He tries a pincer maneuver _after_ the vast majority of his little gang have been wiped out? Can’t he see they’re all doomed? Looking around, Felix sees no other coward popping out of the woodwork behind them. This one’s all alone, attacking _him_.

Idiot.

The straggler’s face contorts in something like fury, and Felix finds himself unaffected by the expression. No, he’s as stony as always, advancing on his adversary. But as he slashes, the dastard _ducks_, nearly crouching as he avoids Felix’s blade.

And then Felix’s legs are swiped out from under him.

This time, Sylvain isn’t keeping him from hitting the ground.

He hears Byleth say his name again, but he can’t do much of anything as he lays there, sucking in air that his lungs don’t seem to register. His ears ring, head aching from where it smacked against the ground. _Son of a bitch_. The wind has flown right out of him. This guy fights like a mercenary. Like _Byleth_. Limbs everywhere, not just relying on a sword.

He fights hungrily, and Felix recognizes that hunger in his eyes as he stands, making to stab Felix right into the ground.

Felix has enough agency to roll, sword pulled in close, though the world spins as he does so, confusing him further. He wheezes, he _hates_ wheezing, and pushes himself to his hands and knees quickly. _Get up, get up!_ He’s _not_ getting impaled on a routine clear-out like this. He refuses.

A heavy boot collides with his ribs, and what little air he’s managed to keep leaves him in a rush as he falls back down, a breathy swear leaving him. _Weak_. Falling to dirty techniques like this? These aren’t even _techniques_. They’re feral, _sloppy_. Like a wild animal backed into a corner. Someone else yells his name—Dimitri?—but his ears ring, he can only hear the edges. _Pull it together, Felix. Come on, **get up**._

He manages to look up, at least, teeth bared, and for a moment he thinks the wolf analogy Byleth gave him isn’t that far off. His attacker grins, wicked, and that boot comes for him once more, crashing down hard to pin his arm to the ground and preventing him from making a desperate slash. He manages to keep a grip on his sword for a moment longer, but then that boot _presses_, and Felix can’t help the gasp of pain that leaves him. He reaches for the leg, as if he can do anything to pull, shove, _get_ it off, but the man’s strength and stature over him easily overpowers any sort of force he can muster. The disgusting, dirtied sword looms over him.

_I’ll be damned if I die to **this**_, he thinks, venomous and vile, shooting off a kick that doesn’t land. A horse whinnies in the distance. _Dastard probably can’t even do it cleanly._

Felix doesn’t close his eyes. He’d rather face whatever comes next head on, glare mutinous. His chest rises and falls rapidly, and he thinks that’s adrenaline causing the rush in his veins. Distantly, he hears Byleth shouting orders—_Get to him!_ Her voice sounds so… frantic. Like she’s at the end of her own rope.

Rhythmic thuds against the ground. Heavy impact and a grunt. There’s what sounds like a battle cry, then, and a flash of red hair. Two bodies stumble away from him. “For the Goddess’s sake, get _up_, Felix!”

He blinks, pushing himself up. He reaches for his sword, then blinks again, blocking out how the world turns in what he thinks is panic. “Sylvain,” he manages, voice hoarse.

Sylvain seems utterly focused in a way Felix rarely sees, fire in his eyes as he lunges forward with his lance, skewering along the bandit’s side and drawing out a cry of pain. His jaw’s clenched, hair wild. He glances down and steps closer to Felix, lance ready. “Of course it’s me. Come on, buddy, I’m not letting you fall out here.”

_I already fell_, is the retort that comes to mind. Felix ignores it and chooses instead to climb to his feet. He feels shaky. _Thanks_, is what next springs to the tip of his tongue, but he ignores that too, getting himself into a more appropriate stance. He looks to the bandit to find him on the ground, an alarming pool of blood leaking from his side. He tries not to think about what _else_ he sees falling out of him.

But the dastard’s still breathing, spitting curses as Sylvain approaches, face grim. There’s the too-simple sound of a lance piercing the man’s chest, and he chokes on whatever else he wants to say, eyes going dull.

Sylvain turns to Felix. “Are you alright?”

“I could have done that.” As an afterthought, Felix nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m alright.”

“Good.” Sylvain apparently doesn’t bother responding to the first words out of his mouth, and Felix finds himself glad that he doesn’t. He steps towards him, lance falling to his side, and stutters in his steps, a noise growled and unmistakably pained passing from his mouth.

Felix is quick to sheathe his sword, rushing forward. “What, what’s wrong?”

Sylvain shakes his head. “My arm hurts.”

It’s then Felix recognizes the broken shaft of an arrow protruding from Sylvain’s upper arm, one of the few spots not covered by his armor. “Idiot,” he says before he can think of what _real _words to choose. “Why were you lifting a lance like that?”

“To save your skin,” Sylvain answers, as if the answer’s simple. He looks at Felix, and his expression seems remarkably exasperated. “Goddess, would it kill you to thank me for once?”

Felix doesn’t know what to say to that. Instead, he steps to Sylvain’s side (the one without an arrow in the arm) and slips an arm around his waist for support. “You can walk, right?”

“I made it over here, didn’t I?”

“Smartass.” Felix doesn’t let him go. “Where are your vulneraries?”

“I, uh.” Sylvain laughs, sheepish. “I may have forgotten to mention I was low to the professor.”

The string of swearing that leaves Felix makes Sylvain laugh again, though it’s nothing like the boisterous thing Felix finds himself wishing to hear. “Fine,” Felix says, digging out a vial of his own. He pops the top off. “Just—drink one of mine. It’ll dull the pain.”

“I know what they do, Fe.”

“Shut up and _drink_.”

Sylvain huffs, a half-smile on his face, and drinks when Felix shoves the vial to his mouth. He grimaces as it goes down—not the most pleasant sensation—but his wincing with each movement of his shoulder ceases.

“Come on, girl,” Sylvain says, and Felix realizes the rhythmic thuds from earlier were hooves of the horse now following them.

“Don’t you dare tell me you jumped off your fucking horse to get to me.”

“Fine, then. I won’t. But I sure did get to you right in time.”

Felix tries desperately, _desperately_ not to explode at him. His face betrays his struggle.

“I’m not going to hear the end of it later, huh?”

“Not a chance.”

Sylvain laughs, softer. “Figured as much.”

Felix looks forward, back to their group, relieved yet also unnerved to find Byleth staring back at him. There’s a grim resignation on her face. He’s relieved to see she’s okay, that everyone else is relatively okay, but… He wonders if he’ll get an earful of his own for this later. After they deal with the wounds, at least. Apparently, during Sylvain’s little stunt, the others have finished off the last of them. Byleth stands over the body of what looks to be the leader.

Byleth almost always takes the last one standing. As if to spare her students any more of it. At first, Felix had scoffed at such sentiments, but when he’d seen the aftermaths of a particularly bloody skirmish (Mercedes’s almost haunted face, her hands rubbing knots out of Annette’s too-small shoulders; Ashe quietly insisting to himself what he did was right, with Ingrid reminding him of the duties of a knight), he learned to appreciate such mercies.

He leads Sylvain over to the others, jittery under their stares. But they’re quick to get back into action, all getting ready to head back to the monastery. Byleth reaches for Dimitri’s arm, murmurs something Felix can’t hear. Dimitri nods, and then he approaches them, reaching to take Sylvain from Felix’s support.

Felix, failing to surprise anyone in the world, does _not_ relinquish an injured Sylvain to the boar. He attemps to level him with a glare.

“I can walk on my own, guys,” Sylvain says, exasperated. “Not saying I don’t _love_ the attention, but—”

“Professor’s orders,” Dimitri says, equally exasperated. “We’ll have Mercedes look over you, remove the rest of that arrow.” He meets Felix’s eyes, gesturing back from where he came. “She asked for you.”

For a moment, Felix wants to refuse. But he looks back to Byleth, at the piercing gaze she fixes him with, and sighs. The noise is harsh and grating. “Joy.”

* * *

Walking back, the mood gradually lightens. Sylvain’s the only one with an injury left, but he’s quick to make light of it, obviously milking it for attention more than anything else. The act he puts on makes Felix wonder if the injury even hurts him at all. _Of course it does_, he thinks. Sylvain just doesn’t want them to worry about him. Sure, his moans and groans about how he can’t feel his arm _sound_ serious, but they all have known him long enough to call him out on such bullshit.

“Of course you can’t,” Dimitri says matter-of-factly. “You just drank a vulnerary.”

Sylvain grumbles something back that Felix can’t hear.

No one looks back, where he and Byleth are keeping up the rear of their troupe. They’ve been here for a while now, but still there’s silence. Knowing Byleth, she’s probably waiting for him to say something first, to reach out and ensure that he’s listening, instead of letting her words flow in one ear and out the other.

He almost wants to make her wait indefinitely. But his patience wears thin.

“What do you want?” he asks, turning his head towards her.

Byleth looks back, hand resting on the Sword of the Creator’s hilt. “What happened, Felix?”

He huffs, looking forward again. He periodically forgets how much he dislikes her probing eyes. They’re almost as bad as her usual blank ones. “Dastard got the jump on me, is all.”

“Not many people get the jump on you.”

“Is that what you want to say? ‘Be better, Felix’?” His words come out bitter on his tongue. His body may be exhausted now that adrenaline has raced through it, but he’s quick to snap at whatever hand reaches out to him. “Tch. I already know that much.”

“You didn’t let me finish.” His words barely affect Byleth. As usual. “I’m worried. If this dancing business is--”

“I don’t give a damn about the Cup!”

Byleth sighs quietly, and Felix scowls as a few of the Lions turn back to him. All worried. Maybe curious. The professor makes a gesture with her hand, and they turn back around, talking amongst themselves.

Should Felix apologize? He won’t, specifically because Sylvain’s is the last head to turn back around.

“Of course it’s not that. You wouldn’t let something so simple get to you.”

_You’d be surprised just how simple my problems can be._ He just nods.

“Then what is it?” Byleth asks. “Or was it a fluke?”

“A fluke. That’s all.” He looks away, at the passing trees. “I stayed up late last night. Must have taken a toll on my reflexes.” Or perhaps the alert tension he always has in him has been swiped by these damned dance lessons, leaving him soft and far more relaxed than a warrior ever has the right to be. Just another thing to put down on his list describing why romantic fantasies should be avoided at all costs.

“Hm.” Byleth’s tone gives no hint as to whether she believes him or not. She’s as hard to read as ever. “You should catch up on sleep tonight, then. I…” She pauses, long enough for Felix to look at her to make sure she hasn’t lose her voice.

When he meets her gaze, there’s something raw there. Something _haunted_. “It is my duty as a professor to watch over you all. If _any_ of you…” She clenches her jaw, looking ahead. “I’m glad Sylvain got to you when he did. He sped in that direction before I could finish the order. Before I could start _giving_ the order.”

“He was injured,” Felix says. “He always… He’s _reckless_. He could have gotten worse off pulling something like that.”

“And what about you? He _saved you_,” Byleth says. “That’s what allies do. What _friends_ do.”

“Have you not noticed how often he throws himself into those situations?” Felix nearly hisses. “Always jumping in to help someone else, leaving himself open to get gutted. And he skips practice nearly _constantly_. It’s going to get himself killed in a serious situation. Where would we be, then? He’s—He’s--!”

He groans, crossing his arms and shaking his head.

Byleth studies him. He can _feel_ those eyes trace his profile, and a snarl curls his lips.

“Like what you see?”

“Careful, Felix. Your concern is showing.”

_Don’t remind me. _He shoots her a glare. “Did you have anything else to say to me, _Professor_?”

“Just that I’m glad you’re okay,” she says. She reaches for his arm, but her hand only hovers over his sleeve for a moment and falls instead of ever making contact. “And that I hope you’re not this prickly to _everyone_.”

“You’ll be disappointed.”

“I know,” she says, “but I’ll hope anyway.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic got more.. tense than i had any plans of it being. but that's how this all goes, right?
> 
> with the rate i'm going, i'm guessing this story will count up to 5 or 6 chapters. like i said, nothing groundbreaking. i've had more free time than expected, so enjoy this update and expect another within the week hopefully? (it's basically all written, just needs me to comb through it a few times)
> 
> that being said, i hope y'all have good days!
> 
> edit: i realized i should probably mention i have no idea how vulneraries work and took some liberties jfdklsjlf


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sylvain translates Felix's actions. Ingrid sets them on the right track. They have a conversation surrounded by flowers.
> 
> The White Heron Cup looms, along with the subsequent ball.

Felix, a dinner in his hands, finds Sylvain in the infirmary. Manuela sits at her own desk, looking positively bored to tears. It’s quickly becoming dark outside—hence the dinner—so the room’s cast in a warm candle glow.

“Why are they keeping you in here?” he asks near immediately, scanning over Sylvain now that he doesn’t have armor to hide any other injuries. He’s so damn good at acting, Felix wouldn’t be surprised if he was riddled with arrows.

“_Because_,” Manuela says, patting her own hair as if to check any imperfections, “his arm needs to rest overnight so we can make sure there’s no damage in his senses.” She pauses, then gives the true answer: “And I refuse to have him sneaking out and straining himself.”

That’s a pretty reasonable answer, even if the implication that Sylvain very well may sneak off (which is true) makes him want to roll his eyes. He shrugs and hands the dinner over. It’s still warm, despite the cold outside. Probably because he had rushed over, but no one needs to know that part. Exercise, alright? _Exercise_.

He remembers Mercedes watching him hustle off, a smile on her face before he could turn his head away and miss it, and bristles. “Eat,” he says. He’ll tell her later that it was just… a complicated drill.

Sylvain grins. “Aww, for me? You shouldn’t have. I was just fine sitting here and waiting for a _certain professor_ to go fetch my dinner for me.”

Manuela scoffs. “I was… getting to it. I hoped to rope Professor Hanneman to grabbing both of our dinners...” She trails off, pouting. “Where even _is_ that old fuddy-duddy? I haven’t heard him mumbling for at least an hour.” With that, she stands and marches out of the room. Presumably on a Crest scholar hunt.

Sylvain sighs, shoulders slumping. “I barely understand why they want me on bed rest, anyway. Mercedes healed me fine, it’s mostly superficial now.” As if to demonstrate, he rotates his arm. Apparently it does not feel as good as he thought, and he winces.

“How superficial?” Felix asks, dragging a chair to his bedside. He knows for a fact Mercedes couldn’t heal all of it, and as long as no lives are threatened, Manuela’s a bigger fan of the “dosed healing with added supervision” technique.

He’s not expecting Sylvain to tug his loose shirt collar gingerly over his shoulder, showing mostly clean bandages that wrap from the wound high up on his arm to around his shoulder, but that’s what he gets. (He can ignore the collarbone that accompanies the sight, he’s learned to ignore plenty of Sylvain over the years. He’s just checking out the wound, no—_oh, dammit, he looked at the collarbone_.)

“Nothing terrible,” Sylvain says, then waggles his eyebrows. “At least they didn’t get my legs, right? Or else I _really_ wouldn’t be able to help you dance.”

Right, they still have _that_ coming up. Tuesday, actually. Two days left. Ugh. “You shouldn’t strain yourself,” Felix replies, tone firm. Not _concerned_, just _firm_. “I can dance well enough.”

“You haven’t even gotten to lead yet.”

“You set a good enough example.” And, honestly, Felix hadn’t realized he has yet to take the lead until Sylvain pointed it out like that. He can figure it out easily enough. Or maybe he can mimic following a lead—that would be artistic, right? Out of the norm. But then, people would be able to figure out he only followed Sylvain in their practice.

_Damn it, damn it, damn it_. He doesn’t need anyone sticking their nose further into that business.

Sylvain’s eyebrows fly up, and Felix realizes his mistake in praising him. “Did I, now?”

“Shut up,” he snaps. “Eat. I didn’t walk all the way here in the cold to listen to you prattle on.”

Humbled once more, Sylvain starts eating. After a few bites and a pleased noise (because of _course _Felix knows his favorite food), he pauses and looks up to him. Narrowed brown eyes, eyebrows furrowed slightly, a frown on his mouth. Felix stares back and raises an eyebrow.

“You know,” Sylvain says, slowly, “it’s kind of weird to sit and watch people eat.”

Felix stiffens. “That—I—I was…”

“Are you _blushing_?” Damn him, Sylvain sounds absolutely fucking _delighted_ at this occurrence, laughter bubbling from his lips. “By the Goddess, you _are_! That’s it? That’s what it takes?”

Felix growls and licks his fingers, reaching to put out the nearest candle. A pinch of the wick, quick as a flash, and then it’s dark. Their faces get lost in the shadows cast from the moonlight and what other light sources are closer to the front of the room, the hue around them going cold. “There,” he says, overwhelmingly grateful Manuela has already left. “Now neither of us can see each other.”

It’s a bold-faced lie, which becomes obvious when his eyes adjust to the sudden change in lighting, and he can focus on Sylvain still watching him. Still smiling. Eyebrows raised, as if to ask, _Oh, really_?

“Oh, quiet,” he says, and looks away. “Finish your dinner so I don’t have to worry about you not eating tonight, alright?” He recognizes his use of the word _worry_ too late, but how else is he supposed to label this? It’s what friends do. Byleth would be proud (after she wiped the knowing grin off her face, a smug _I told you so_ in her expression).

“I didn’t even say anything.”

“_Eat_. Can you _try_ to focus on a single task?”

Sylvain narrows his eyes at him, and for a moment Felix wonders if _that’s_ his last straw. Over a decade of being together, and _that’s_ what’s going to make Sylvain leave for good. (Well, maybe not _leave_, because he’s in an infirmary bed right now.) But, thankfully, he just shakes his head minutely and sets to finishing his dinner.

Felix gets up, then, because he doesn’t want to be called out for watching him eat once more. He sets to pacing instead, moving back and forth over the floor. He half expects Sylvain to call him out for wearing a trail into the damn thing, but he doesn’t. It’s quiet. Almost unnervingly so, but Felix has had to deal with plenty of silences following his barbed words. This isn’t new, really, but he still has things he wants to say. Or, perhaps, things he _needs_ to say.

He’s not sure what he _wants_, right now. He’s just frustrated, angry at Sylvain for pulling the same damn thing he has so many times before. But at the same time, if he _hadn’t_… Felix rubs over his arm, the bruise left by the bandit’s boot twinging to remind him. That wouldn’t have killed him. Not a chance, he’s too fueled by spite to let a single fluke take _him_ out. But having to have a pierced stomach healed would have been annoyingly detrimental to his training… and his dancing, he supposes.

_Thank you_. That’s all he needs to say. Then this guilty conscience will leave him alone. But it’s _so hard_ to utter two simple words. Sylvain would probably choke on his food if he told him right now, sputtering something about how he’s worried Felix might have a concussion from the spill he took. _You never say thank you,_ he would say. _Why now?_

Here’s why: Now Felix owes him _two _favors. It’s partially why Felix brought him dinner in the first place. That’s how Felix measures his debts: favors. Things he can do for someone else to pay off whatever it is they’ve done for him. There are some debts that _can’t_ be repaid, no matter how many favors he gives, but he doesn’t want to dwell on _those_ right now. Especially since the biggest debtor in that regard sits right on the other side of the infirmary, eating a meat pie.

“Hey, Felix?”

Felix turns to face Sylvain once more. He’s looking content, probably from a full stomach. Outside, it finally starts to snow, and the faint shadows fall over him, like imaginary snowflakes getting caught in his hair. (Felix quickly reprimands himself for such fantastical thoughts.)

“Yeah?” he asks, when Sylvain doesn’t automatically respond to his attention.

“You’re welcome.”

It isn’t said with that smug grin, or any sort of mischief in his eyes. No, Sylvain’s as sincere as he ever will be, taking the silent gratitude and replying with verbal acceptance. Of course. Of _course_ he knows how Felix thinks, huh?

_Would it kill you to say thank you?_ were his words only earlier today, growled out.

Felix blinks, finding himself at a loss at how to respond. Part of him feels like he cheated, in not having to actually _say_ it. But another part is so grateful he didn’t have to, fucking _elated_ that Sylvain could read his actions easily enough. “How was the food?” is what he settles on.

“Good. So you don’t have to worry about me going hungry, alright?”

He can’t even say he wasn’t going to worry because his dumb ass just said so. So instead he nods once, fingers twitching, and says, “Good.” Hopefully the warm lighting behind him obscures whatever dumb expression he’s sure he makes right now.

“… I’d do it all over again, you know.”

Felix knows. He knows it so acutely that the words open up a pit in his stomach. _Yes, I know. But we made a promise, don’t you remember? You’re not supposed to die before me, especially **for** me. If you keep being reckless, that’s where you’ll end up. _He swallows. “You shouldn’t.”

Sylvain’s response is immediate. “But I will.”

“And I will _never_ forgive you if _that’s_ what takes you from—” Felix sighs, harsh, and looks out the window at the falling snow. His voice turns brittle; a glass cannon. “If that’s what ends up killing you. Stop speaking like it’s an inevitability, Sylvain.”

Sylvain doesn’t say anything to that, and when Felix chances a glance at him as he makes his way out, he sees confusion on his face. It’s a sight parallel to what he saw when he said those stupid words the first time they danced: _It’s impossible not to trust you._ Felix doesn’t allow himself to think about what correlates between the two; he’s scared of whatever conclusion he might come to.

He pauses at the threshold, hand on the doorframe, and speaks to his feet when he says, tone curt, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He leaves too quickly to catch anything other than a _Wait, Felix!_

It seems a lot of their conversations end like this.

* * *

The next day, Felix goes to class as usual, though he’s far less abrasive to Byleth’s droning. Some of what she says _is_ useful, after all, and he’s far too locked inside his own head to get into an argument about the parts that are complete asinine. She definitely notices, because for once she can get through an entire lesson _without_ having to reprimand him for even the slightest harsh comment, but perhaps his silence comes more welcome than not. Good thing, too, or else he’s certain she would call him out in front of the class if she was more averse to his detachment. She’s proven to not be afraid to utilize such embarrassments, even if a good portion of her students are members of nobility and will most definitely rule over her one day.

He admires that, really. She’s grown up so detached from the worlds they know, blind to the idea of status. There’s no emphasis on knighthood and chivalry, no favoritism towards students with Crests… She treats them all as equals. Mostly. Even if her demeanor can be off-putting, she’s a good professor. Not that he would ever say such a thing out loud.

He slides out the door quickly when classes finally end, hurrying off before he runs into Sylvain. _I’ll see you tomorrow_, he said. Well, perhaps it would be best to let his confessions rest a bit before trying to interact further. No, he didn’t come out and profess love or anything like that, but… admitting he cares, in any fashion (including his thorny proclamations), may prove to be the end of him if Sylvain tries to get a repeat performance.

This entire competition has thrown him off-kilter. Something knocked a few bricks in his dam loose, and now he keeps leaking actual… _feelings_. Felix blames it solely on how he has to dance with Sylvain, because there’s only so long one can go on dancing nightly with the object of their affections before it starts to permanently affect them. Years ago, perhaps he would have been giddy at the prospect. Now, he’s exhausted from so many nights spent together, touching all the while.

Not in a sexual manner, no. The physical contact required to dance together, however little there may be compared to how others express affection, is _far _more than what Felix is used to. It’s like going from meager meals to three-course masterpieces. He never actually considered himself _touch-starved_ until he realized no, perhaps it’s not normal for him to fixate on Sylvain’s hand in his so solidly.

Just another problem he has to deal with until he wins this damn Cup and everything goes back to normal.

Ingrid catches him by the wrist as he’s about to move to the training grounds, nimbly steering him back around to walk beside her, and he nearly jumps at the contact, wrenching his wrist away as soon as he can.

She gives him a look and drops her hand. “You’re so predictable. If you want to _avoid_ him, don’t go to where you can be found every hour of your free time, Felix.”

There’s no question as to who _he_ is. “You think I’m avoiding him,” Felix says, careful in his wording. He doesn’t want to confirm her suspicions until he absolutely has to.

“You should have heard him at breakfast today.” Ingrid lowers her voice, brow furrowing. “’Has Felix been acting different to you? Maybe something’s up.’” She sighs, voice going to her regular cadence. “And then _you_ nearly fly out of class as soon as the bell rings, and Sylvain’s left looking at _me_ like he’s a lost puppy.”

Felix can’t help the smirk that forms. It’s easier to smirk at Ingrid’s frustrations than obsess over Sylvain being distraught over _him_.

“Oh, don’t look so amused. One of these days, I’ll stop playing chaperone to you boys’ shenanigans. To pay me back for having to console a confused Sylvain, you’re going to help me with the rest of the dishes from lunch.”

He shrugs and follows her to the kitchens, because yes, he _is_ avoiding Sylvain, and not haunting the training grounds is probably the best course of action to continue to avoid him. Well, there’s also the fact that he knows if he tries to abandon Ingrid _now_, she’ll give him hell. Washing dishes is a mindless enough activity.

Until she starts interrogating him as they scrub.

“So. When are you going to stop dancing around him?”

What a wonderful way to phrase it. “What if I just need to be alone for a while?”

“Don’t answer my question with another. You _know_ you’re going to have to talk to him eventually. I asked you _when_, not _if_.”

He oh-so-gently sets down a pile of plates. It’s a conscious effort, considering he’s about to throw something. “Maybe you should stay out of it,” he mutters, keeping his voice low in case anyone feels the need to listen in on their conversation. They’re not exactly in private right now, though the water sloshing and dishes clinking alleviate fears of eavesdroppers.

“Ah, so it’s not just a general problem. It’s something between you two.”

_Damn it!_ “Exactly. And you have no place in it.”

“I said one day I’d stop overseeing you two, but that day’s not today. Someone has to tell you to _speak_.”

He grumbles, “I tried.”

There’s a pause, one in which Felix knows Ingrid’s eyebrows have flown up. “You said something and it actually got to Sylvain?”

“No! No, I—_ugh_.” Maybe if he just stops responding, she’ll give up and leave him alone. He doesn’t need to air his dirty laundry out for everyone to deal with, and he _certainly_ doesn’t need to admit that he’s slipping in his own prickly front.

They scrub in silence for a few moments. He can _feel_ Ingrid’s growing frustration, but she has patience. The air crackles with expectation and vehement refusal to meet said expectation, until Ingrid sighs and puts down a bowl, turning to look right at him. He feels those sea green eyes bore into him, and vehemently refuses to meet them. “Felix, is there even a problem?”

Of course there is. There’s at least one, but Felix hasn’t told anyone in his years of keeping that particular secret. Regarding what happened last night, though… “Perhaps not.”

“Then why,” Ingrid asks, quiet and all-knowing, “did I pull you away like this?”

“Because you’re nosy.”

“Try again.”

Felix sighs, and as he finishes another dish and sets it to dry, he says, “Because Sylvain thinks there is one, and you’re checking in for him.”

“And here I thought you _hadn’t_ been listening to me.” Ingrid flicks her wrists, sending water droplets off into the basin. “Talk to him. Goddess knows _I_ have no idea what’s going through his head sometimes, but if there’s even the slightest chance that he thinks he actually did something wrong, you need to set that straight.”

Felix doubts it’s exactly as she says, but he isn’t about to explain the whole situation to her. She’s right—Ingrid often is, even if he won’t tell her as much out loud. He stares at the dishes and nods after a moment, muttering an affirmation.

“I can handle the rest,” she says. “I’ve said what I had to say.”

Felix almost insists that he stays back to help, but she nudges him out of the way with her hip, humming some nonsense tune as if channeling Annette. With a final gaze at her blonde head of hair (in which he hopes a _thank you_ is evident, because he can’t find the words), he then turns to leave, heading out the way to the hedges. Good thing, too, because he hears Sylvain’s voice moments later. He presses himself against the wall, eavesdropping despite knowing it’s a horrible idea if he wants to remain hidden.

“Ingrid, have you seen--?”

“Did you check the training grounds?”

A pause. “Yes, of course I did. You haven’t seen him?”

“Maybe he’s in the greenhouse.”

She’s specifically avoiding lying directly to him. Felix can’t help but be impressed with how quickly she responds, how easily. Then he realizes that probably means she’s had this planned out, and he frowns. _Meddler._

“Why would _Felix_ be in the greenhouse?”

“He could be feeling botanical.”

Felix snorts at that, and then hears the doors open and shut once more as Sylvain leaves the way he came in, off to check the greenhouse of all places.

“You’re welcome!” Ingrid calls out, though he’s almost certain _that_ part isn’t meant for Sylvain.

He grumbles. It’s an obvious setup: _Talk to him in the greenhouse. It’s never crowded._ The fact that she _knows_ he stayed here to listen sours his expression further; she’s learned how to play them like fiddles, if she puts her mind to it. Impressive, but so terribly irritating. However, like it or not, Felix does need to affirm that things are okay. For Sylvain’s sake. _Dammit, dammit_.

He doesn’t bother responding to her outright, though she snickers when he comes right back through the door, heading out the other way.

* * *

The greenhouse is open and full of flowers as usual. The sun casts harsh beams down through the windows, and the entire place is hotter than it has any right to be because of it. The myriad of scents assault Felix when he walks in. 

There’s a reason Felix doesn’t often _feel botanical_.

He keeps his steps light so as not to tip off the redhead standing there with his shoulders slumped and hands on his hips. “Sylvain,” he says, crossing his arms.

Sylvain visibly perks. “Felix!” He turns, eyes wide as he rushes to him. “I was looking for you! Listen, you left kind of in a hurry last night, and I couldn’t get you to stick around for a second more to ask, but…”

Just as Felix expects an arm to sling around his shoulders, business as usual, Sylvain _stops_. That simple omission of contact rings alarm bells in Felix’s head.

“Are you okay?” they both ask at the same time.

Perfect. Fucking great. Felix resists the urge to try to figure out which of these flowers can knock a man unconscious the quickest if ingested.

Sylvain, however, blinks and laughs. “You first.”

“No,” Felix says, because he doesn’t want to talk about _himself_, “you.”

He almost gets an argument. He can see Sylvain pause mid-retort, instead closing his mouth again and humming in thought. He won’t stop looking at Felix, and it’s awful. “I’m alright. I was worried you… weren’t.”

“What about your arm?”

Sylvain blinks, as if he forgot about that entirely. He rolls his shoulder, waves the appendage around. “Feels fine. Maybe a little tender, but I was cleared when I proved I could still feel things this morning.”

Okay, good. Fantastic. Now… “Why were you worried about _me_?” Felix asks, and for once, the accusation in his tone is involuntary.

“I don’t know.” Sylvain’s gaze turns into an examination. _Awful_. “You’ve just seemed _off_ lately. Especially last night.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Sylvain sighs, shoulders slumping, and Felix knows that wasn’t the best answer. “Right. Of course you don’t. You remember what I said the other night, right?”

“You’ve said a lot of things since then.”

“I’ll _listen_ if something’s bothering you.” Sylvain’s response is immediate, like he was expecting the denial. _He probably did_. “If _I’m _bothering you. So you don’t have to run away when you say something like… like last night.”

Felix looks away, to a bunch of bright yellow flowers Byleth must have planted. _Chrysanthemums_, he thinks. Because they’re one of the few flowers he can recognize, having been dragged to help her plant them over a month ago. “I said all I needed to.”

“Not if I still have to translate what you mean.”

Felix doesn’t respond, amber eyes stuck on the flowers. The silence passes on for ages, and Sylvain sighs once more. It almost sounds like a laugh—a sad, soft thing. Pitiful. Felix promptly decides he hates it, and hates the fact that he’s the reason behind it even more. But he still doesn’t respond, _can’t_ respond because what should he even—

“I don’t mean to scare you.”

_That_ draws his attention back, and the sincerity on Sylvain’s face leaves him breathless. _It’s the flowers_, he tells himself. _They’re making me dizzy_.

“I don’t want to make you worry,” Sylvain says, careful in his words as if he needs to enunciate everything loud and clear. So Felix can hear him, so he has no chance of pleading ignorance later. “But I’m not going to apologize for jumping to save your skin. Because then you wouldn’t expect me to do it again, but I would. I told you, I would. I’m not sorry.”

Felix hears him, of course, but there’s also a loud voice in his head berating himself for even mentioning worrying last night. Berating himself because how dare he, how _dare_ he even hint at how worried he was? _Is_? Because now he’s hearing this, and even though he realizes he’s known this for years, hearing it said out loud is different. Hearing it stated so clearly, so _no_ misconception could come about, rings even more alarms.

“I’m going to have your back because I care about you. You can think that’s such a bad thing all you want, but I know it’s not.”

Felix might be astral projecting.

“Because that’s what friends are for.”

It’s jarring how abruptly he comes back to himself. He blinks out of that other plane of existence, the plane of existence where he thought… he _thought_. He blinks back into the one where the lines are drawn in bold strokes: friends. _Friends_.

Then, another jarring occurrence: the thought that, really, Felix isn’t sure if he’s been much of a _friend_ at all. When has he ever listened? When has Sylvain ever talked to _him_? Leaned on him, excusing physical means? He’s left floundering, trying to find an example in recent memory and coming up empty. That makes this damned infatuation even worse; if he can’t even be a good friend, how the hell could he ever think he could be a _lov—_

“But, ah… I talk too much, huh?”

The silence has gone on for too long. Sylvain’s closer now. Close enough so Felix can see the cracks beneath the smile he puts on, the bright, easy persona he takes up so easily because he’s been doing it for years. And the tips of his ears are red. _No, don’t put it back on. Not now. _“Sylvain—”

“The Cup’s tomorrow,” Sylvain cuts him off, so quick it sounds desperate, “and you haven’t lead yet, have you?”

Felix pauses. Swallows. He _wanted_ the conversation to move on, yet he so badly wants to rewind time, shake himself from just a few moments ago and yell to _Speak, dammit, **speak**!_ “I guess not.”

“Well.” Sylvain spreads his arms, eyebrows going up. “Let’s put you in the lead, then.”

_Here?_ Felix makes a face. “We’re in public.”

Sylvain steps around him, and Felix turns to watch him rest a hand on one of the doors, an eyebrow raised. “We could close the doors,” Sylvain says, voice odd and too flippant. His mouth droops the tiniest bit from his smile. “You don’t have to worry about being seen with me.”

That’s far too self-deprecating to let slide, right? _It’s not you. I swear, I’m not worried about **my** image, I’m worried about **yours**. _“People can still hear us.”

Sylvain rolls his eyes, a smile on his lips that oozes artifice. “Who will eavesdrop on a _greenhouse_? Besides, my voice carries more than yours. They’ll hear me and think, well…” Something shadows his expression, the line of his mouth evening out. “You know what they’ll think.”

He doesn’t even say it quietly, but it _feels_ like Felix could hear a pin drop. It feels like the air suddenly got heavy. It feels like he’s the one that made it that way. “Sylvain,” he says, “I’m only worried about the dancing.”

“You’re going to have to get used to an audience if you’re going to win for us.” Smooth, breezy—a perfect response from Sylvain.

Felix won’t say that he doesn’t want to be seen dancing with Sylvain, because he _knows_ that it’ll be misconstrued and he sure as hell doesn’t want to risk hearing Sylvain make another slight at his own presence today. Or ever. Instead, he’ll reach the doors on his own, close them himself. He steps close, holding his hand out. “I will tomorrow.”

Sylvain smiles at that, something _genuine_, and takes his hand. It’s a conscious effort for his hand to find Felix’s shoulder instead of his waist, which is evident in how he hesitates midway through positioning himself before readjusting, cheeks tinting.

Felix wishes he could see that color in any other context besides Sylvain’s embarrassment. But he just rests his hand on Sylvain’s waist, and… leads.

It _is_ odd, with their heights. Or perhaps it’s odd because they’ve been doing it the other way for so long that Felix has internalized the idea of following the lead. He’s back in control now, holding the reins, and he stutters in his steps before he switches into the lead’s movements. He should be more frustrated at this, but he isn’t. He can’t be. He feels like he’s gone through emotional whiplash, falling into something neutral.

It’s too fucking hot to dance, especially in their uniforms. They’re both used to the cooler climate, so with the greenhouse still retaining warmth in the winter, with Sylvain so close, with them dancing no matter how slowly, it’s _warm_. But he won’t complain.

Not right now. He doesn’t want to hear whatever Sylvain would respond with. _Just ask him what’s wrong_. Because something _has_ to be wrong, something’s causing that off tilt in Sylvain’s expression. For the life of him, Felix can’t bring himself to ask.

He swears when he nearly steps on Sylvain’s feet.

His friend laughs. At least _that_ is real.

Yet, so are the thousand things left unsaid when they really, _really_ shouldn’t be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so we've got two chapters left! or maybe one and a half... the next one might be shorter than the rest, or i might smush it in with the last one, but... we'll get there when we get there. everything's finished now, i'm just trying to polish it up to standard. so... maybe it'll be done for real in the next week or so? i want to say that's a tentative schedule, considering i'm worried school will suddenly punch me in the head, but still.
> 
> thank you to everyone who's commented and left kudos so far! you're all fantastic, and i'm glad y'all appreciate me sharing this!! it's very encouraging. i kept soft-tweeting about it but there are more people here to see my gratitude, so... thank you!! i hope this chapter's enjoyable, too.
> 
> have a good day, everyone!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The White Heron Cup commences, though Alois seems to be the only person truly interested. The Blue Lions have a meeting and talk about things actual teenagers would talk about. Felix is a thorny wallflower.

The White Heron Cup, admittedly, hasn’t really been at the forefront of Felix’s mind, even if it’s the main thing that got him into his current mess. When he finds himself at breakfast with the Lions hyping him up, he realizes that _oh, right, that’s today isn’t it?_ It’s not necessarily a shock, but it certainly twists his perception to something new, which is… a welcome thing, honestly. It’s easier to fume about how he wants to win this to prove a point, yet by doing so, he’ll have to wear an awful outfit unless Byleth takes the smallest bit of pity on him.

Yes, it’s much easier to fume on that instead of reflect over and over on how Sylvain had said _friends_, and how his chest had caved in on itself.

_Fuck._

“You’ll do fantastically, Felix,” Mercedes says, gracious as ever. “I have nothing but faith in you!”

“Just try not to scowl,” Annette chimes in with a crooked grin. “Don’t want to scare the judges.”

Just for that, she gets a scowl for her troubles. She just laughs at him, and Felix finds himself… grateful for the bit of joy, honestly. It makes him scowl further as he turns his gaze to his picked-apart breakfast and grumbles.

“Do your best, and you’ll have no regrets.” Ashe’s grin complements Annette’s, full of sincerity instead of mischief.

“You’ll make us proud,” Dimitri says. “I’m sure our pro—”

“Alright, alright.” Felix stabs into his breakfast, rolling his eyes. “I don’t need cheerleaders. I’ll go up there, dance a little, and Dorothea will dazzle the judges and take the trophy or… whatever they hand out.”

“Now _that’s_ pessimistic.”

Everyone looks to Sylvain, who’s got his characteristic easygoing posture and lazy smile.

_Fake,_ screams Felix’s mind. _Fake. I did that. I said something wrong—or did I just not say anything at all?_

“You’ll be fine, Felix,” Sylvain says, winking at him. “Break a leg.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s the exact opposite of the goal here,” he responds drily.

Sylvain laughs, taking the sarcasm and turning the conversation elsewhere. Felix finds himself grateful for the diversion. He can retreat into his own head again and try to figure out what to do about that whole… situation. Because, by now, it’s obvious that just passing through this competition will do nothing to help whatever fuck-up he committed with Sylvain.

It can’t be that hard to just _ask_, can it? Why is that the one thing he can’t do? Then again, was it entirely fair of Sylvain to spill his guts and proceed to sweep everything under the rug like that in the first place? You can’t just run away from—

Felix blinks. _Oh, right. That’s… that’s just my own medicine coming back to me._

“Felix, you look like you just remembered a missed assignment,” Ashe points out.

Felix looks at the others, who all look at him expectantly, and he shakes his head. “Something about the Cup. I need to go see… the professor.” He stands, taking his breakfast to clean up his spot. “I will see you all later on.”

With that, he turns on his heel and goes to reconcile with his self-realization elsewhere.

* * *

The day isn’t nearly as eventful as you would suspect, considering how Alois has been hyping up this entire competition since it was announced. He seems to be the only one truly interested when Felix takes his place with the rest of the dancer. Manuela has the telltale furrow between her brow that signals her heavy drinking the previous night, and Shamir is… Shamir. Why is _she_ here?

Whatever. Felix avoids looking to see who else is watching, avoids looking at his competitors. All he needs to do is dance and get it over with; this is what he’s been wishing for ever since Byleth first gave him this damned role. Alois spews his pomp and circumstance, and then they’re off to the races.

Oh, how Felix wishes to be off to the races instead of here, dancing with a ghost. It’s humiliating, to mimic dancing without any real partner, though he feels like it fits his situation right now. After a few beats, he realizes his posture and where he’s placed his hands suggest that his partner’s taller, but perhaps no one notices _that_ part. Goddess, he hopes no one notices. He doesn’t adjust so he can avoid putting a spotlight on the mistake. Confidence is key, right?

Even if, in doing so, his arms get uncomfortable quicker.

He tries to keep Annette’s advice in mind, solely because it mirrors Byleth’s one bit of advice she gave him: _hone that charm_. No scowling. Scowling can scare people off, and he doesn’t want to scare people away from voting for him.

_Loosen up, Felix_, says a low, familiar voice in his head, and it’s out of pure will that he doesn’t glare at his imaginary partner. His ears burn. When will this damn song _end_?

The actual performance isn’t difficult in the slightest. It’s all routine, really, and he finds himself grateful that he took the time to relearn all the steps so he wouldn’t be up here making a fool of himself.

… Hold on, of _course_ he’s making a fool of himself. This entire thing is just an extended exercise in public humiliation—at least, for him. To think anything else would be to concede that this isn’t as bad as he made it out to be in the beginning. Which it is. Totally. Byleth will be on his shit list for this for years to come.

Dancing isn’t like swordplay, to him. He can’t turn his brain off when he’s doing this. Unsurprisingly, in addition to the constant repetition of steps, his stupid mind fixates on a single other point. _I’ll talk to him after this,_ he tells himself. _I’ll figure out what’s wrong, and I’ll fix it. We’ll fix it. I’ll listen to his troubles, and be a good friend, and never dance with him again._

He should be content with that. He can finally pull his own weight in their relationship, and he doesn’t have to worry about ever having to beat away romantic thoughts with a broom whenever Sylvain takes his hand and spins him around. Imagine his shock when he realizes that no, he is _not_ content with that. But he must.

Felix has had to settle for a lot of things in the past four years. What’s one more?

When he’s announced the winner, it’s a surprise. A bittersweet one. He’s glad he proved himself, glad that Byleth smiles proudly at him (even if you will _never_ hear him admit that out loud), but he also hates how now, he’s presumably the best dancer of the monastery. Or, at least, of the three houses. That’s _definitely_ not the superlative he was expecting from this school, but with all the other unexpected shit that’s gone on this year, maybe he should be grateful for something vaguely positive.

The Lions congratulate him, and with Byleth’s permission, they bring their dinners into their house room for a kind of celebration, even going so far as to arrange the tables in a manner more settled for conversation (even if the awkward triangle they make isn’t _ideal_). It feels weak, in a way, but they need to take celebrations and joy in whatever they can, at this point. The Cup and the ball are the only two events this month designed specifically for _fun_, albeit of the traditional variety.

Felix isn’t one for fun, but he can admit that seeing people chatter about the coming party is a lot better than the tragedy of the past month.

And chatter they do.

To Felix, this is just another dance. Dances mean people. They mean far too much conversation, far too many blushing faces, far too many couples twirling each other under the fantastical lighting and tittering amongst themselves like they’re the only two people in the world. Far too many people looking to be swept off their feet.

To everyone else, though...

“Ingrid,” Mercedes implores, “perhaps we could try the smallest hint of makeup on you? I could make you dazzle the room!”

“But I’m not looking to _dazzle_,” Ingrid responds. “Why bother with such a thing? I’m not going to dance the entire night.”

“Besides, Ingrid’s _already_ a knockout—”

“_Sylvain_.”

“Oops.” Sylvain shrugs, leaning out of their little circle with his hands planted on the table behind him. Because of _course_ he can’t sit in a chair like a normal person. “Sorry, Your Highness. Who are _you_ looking to dance with?”

The boar makes a startled noise. “Dance--?”

“You ask people to dance, and they dance with you. Vice versa.” Sylvain rolls his eyes, playful and grinning. “So who do you have your eye on?”

Silence. Annette coughs, totally conspicuous.

“Your _Highness_,” Sylvain says, clutching his chest. “You can’t tell me you’re _not_ considering all the opportunities laid out before us!”

Ingrid scoffs. “_Opportunities_.”

“Ladies everywhere, looking to be swept off their feet! Gentlemen too, if that’s what you’re into.” Sylvain winks and earns a strangled noise from Dimitri. He leans forward again with his hands gripping the edge of the table, his grin turning devilish as he watches for the prince’s reaction. “I doubt our lovely professor has _ever_ been to an event so exciting. You want to make sure she has a good time, right?”

A blush climbs up Dimitri’s neck. Felix fights the urge to snort. “I don’t know what you’re implying—”

“Whomever His Highness wants to dance with is knowledge for his own mind first and foremost,” Dedue says, regarding Sylvain with a blank expression.

“Oh, but the suspense is _killing_ me!” The amount of theatrics Sylvain puts on is almost admirable. “Fine. Keep your secrets, it’ll make for a good story later when we reminisce and _none_ of us are surprised _at all_ by your choice of partner.”

Dimitri narrows his eyes at him and huffs. “Who are _you_ looking to dance with, then?”

“Me--?” Sylvain blinks, like he _wasn’t_ expecting people to ask. He shrugs, smirk just as theatrical (or, to Felix’s eyes). “Anyone who asks, of course. I’m nothing if not a—”

“Scoundrel,” Ingrid finishes, tone riding the razor thin edge between fond and exasperated.

It’s not jealousy that curls in Felix’s stomach, no. Jealousy suggests that Sylvain was his to lose. No, envy fits the feeling more, but that doesn’t make him feel any better about it. He’s spent _years_ not having to deal with that horrid thought process, and now it’s haunting him.

“Harsh, my lady. How about you, Dedue? What’ll you be up to?”

The answer’s immediate. “Making sure His Highness is comfortable.”

“_Please_,” Dimitri says, “try to enjoy yourself for the night. I assure you, I’ll be fine.”

A beat of silence as Dedue just nods.

“I’m going to dance with Annie,” Mercedes offers, a serene smile on her face.

Annette, on the other hand, sits up straight on the table, beaming. “Yeah, and we’ll cut a rug better than anyone else!”

“I’ll take that challenge,” Ashe says.

“Felix?”

He looks up at Sylvain, at the curiosity in his gaze. “What made you think I’m going to dance?” he asks, just bitter enough to pass as his usual state of being.

Disappointment pulls Sylvain’s features down. It’s exaggerated, but with the way his eyes actually droop… “It’s a ball, Felix. You won the Cup, all the girls will be after you! It’s rude to refuse a harmless dance or two.”

“You say that as if I have any qualms with being rude.”

Sylvain groans, back bowing as his elbows hit his thighs and he buries his head in his hands. “No hesitation. Not even a couple girls? They’ll be falling over themselves for you, why not—”

“I _don’t_,” Felix says, tone going sharp as steel, “want to dance with a girl.”

Awkward silence ensues. Perhaps that was too harsh of a tone, even for him. Sylvain peeks out through his fingers, eyebrows raised at Felix, and it takes effort not to squirm under the gaze of him and the rest of the Lions.

“Listen,” Felix says, wary to even himself. He’ll try again, why not? “I’m just not—”

“Dance with me, then.”

“_What_?”

Sylvain smiles, crooked and bright, as he pulls himself out of his brooding posture. “I’m not a girl, right? So save a dance for me.”

_No. No fucking way._ “Sylvain,” he says, tone laced in warning.

“Just _one_ song. Then you never have to dance again. I can show you a good time, promise.”

Felix swallows and takes a quick glance around their makeshift circle. With so many witnesses, and it’s so _quiet_… “_Fine_.” _Damn it!_ “I’ll dance with you.”

“You heard it here first, folks!” Sylvain announces, radiant. “That on this night of Ethereal Moon, Felix Hugo Fraldarius agreed to take I, Sylvain José Gautier—”

“I reserve my right to rescind my agreement if provoked,” Felix says.

“… Heh, right.”

Their party doesn’t last much longer after that. They still have classes, after all, and not _all_ of the Lions are blatant slackers. When they all finish their dinners and walk to their respective dorms, Sylvain waits for Felix, who waits to leave until everyone else has scattered. He finds his way to Felix’s side, looking sheepish, though he doesn’t speak until they make their way into the corridor

“I didn’t mean to put you on the spot,” he murmurs.

“It’s alright,” Felix responds, much too easily.

“If you don’t want to, I get it. I’ll tell everyone I was, uh, too busy to remember.”

“I figured that’s how it was going to go, anyway.”

He gets the quietest intake of breath for that, and when he looks up at Sylvain, he sees a furrowed brow and stricken eyes. Hurt. He hurt him. _Fuck, fuck, fuck, I’m an asshole_.

“I’m sorry,” he offers, feeling cowed. “I didn’t mean that.” It’s one of the quickest apologies he’s ever offered.

“I wouldn’t abandon you for them.” Sylvain’s voice is too quiet.

Felix finds it both a blessing and a curse; they’re in a corridor with thin walls, but he _hates_ it because Sylvain sounds so_ dejected._ He so badly wants that mask to fall, but it only reveals things like _this_ that tug on his heart.

“Surely you know that. They might not, but _you_ know.”

“I do.”

“Then why do you…?” Sylvain shakes his head and lets out a sardonic laugh, looking away. “I don’t even like those girls.”

“I know.”

Sylvain makes a noise, like he shut his mouth right before he could say something else, and gestures. “There’s your room.”

Felix pauses with his hand on the doorknob. He tries again. “I’m sorry, Sylvain.”

This time, he gets a sigh. “I know, Fe.”

* * *

The night of the ball, Felix realizes that Sylvain was right. Now that people think he’s the best dancer (of… three contestants), they’re bolder in asking him to dance. He outright denies many of the offers—just because he _can_ dance doesn’t mean he _wants_ to. Others come to talk to him, flustered and obviously waiting for an invitation that he never gives. Instead, he gives short responses, using as little words as possible until they lose interest and move on.

He thought his position far off the dance floor, back to the wall, would be dissuading enough. Apparently, he was wrong.

It’s a grand enough event, given the circumstances. The lights are bright, everything bathed in a certain golden glow. The refreshments are alright, though he’s almost certain the Deer have put something in the drinks. Everyone is dressed… well enough. He made sure he was clean, at least, before coming here. He has a feeling Seteth would reprimand anyone dressed sloppily anyways… though, in making sure he didn’t look like utter garbage, Felix has not helped his own problems with being approached at all.

He can’t help but think Sylvain would love this kind of spotlight, and that makes him hate his newfound fame even more. It will last no more than a week, he suspects; perhaps it will even end as soon as the ball does. The quicker it dies off, the better off he’ll be. Then, he can put all of this to rest and go back to avoiding these needless distractions.

But, there are some things he _doesn’t_ want to move on from. Like resolving to be a better friend. Not a lover, a _friend_. Friends listen to each other, support each other, have each other’s backs, and _don’t_ fantasize about how the other’s hair would feel if they ran their fingers through it. He doesn’t want to be the one reaping all the benefits from his and Sylvain’s friendship—he never did, but it happened.

He also didn’t want to not talk to Sylvain for a fucking week, but that happened too. Part of it was out of necessity—the extra training Byleth threw him into to see if a dancer’s grace is really for him on the battlefield (which, it _isn’t_, but she still tries) took up too much time where he could actually hunt Sylvain down and say…

Well, that’s the other reason he hasn’t talked to him. He doesn’t know what to say. Everything feels like a misstep at this point. Would he even be able to help things, or would he just crumple them further?

“You’re scowling.”

Felix sighs and turns his head just enough to eye Byleth. “And?”

“It’s not helping like you think it is.” Byleth gestures to him, and then out at the general populace. “You’re being aloof. People love the aloof ones. What is it Sylvain says? ‘Ladies love a dark and brooding—‘”

“I don’t care what Sylvain says.” Plain and simple, nipped in the bud. But he does, he _does_. “I don’t even know why I’m at this damn thing. It’s loud and… unnecessary.”

Byleth shrugs and joins him, pressing her back to the wall and gazing out at the dancing pairs. “I understand what you mean. I guess I came over here to escape from everyone. Maybe if we stick together, people will think we’re preoccupied.”

Felix scoffs. “You could just leave, you know.”

“So could you.”

He clicks his tongue. _Damn_.

“But we both have our reasons for staying, don’t we?”

Felix keeps himself from looking over the room to find that mess of red hair. “I suppose.”

“I’ll share my secret if you share yours.”

Felix eyes her out of the corner of his gaze, brow furrowing. Two weeks ago, he would have refused. But perhaps, _perhaps_ it would feel better to let the anchor holding him down go for just a moment, let someone else listen to his problems. If it’s mutual, it’s fine. A favor for a favor. A secret for a secret. “Only if yours is worth exchanging.”

Byleth crooks a grin at him, and he fights away his own smile. Then she looks back out, something somber resting in her eyes. “It’s nice,” she says, “to feel wanted. To be a part of all of this, now.”

“Bullshit,” Felix says, and she blinks. Even he surprises himself with how he cuts in. “We all wanted you in our class from day one. There’s no reason for you to _not_ feel like every leader would have given something up to have you be their professor.”

Byleth frowns, then shakes her head. “You misunderstand. That was when you all knew me as… as a mercenary. Jeralt’s daughter. The Ashen Demon.” She pauses after the moniker, as if letting its weight sink onto her shoulders. They slump in response. “But people aren’t afraid to come up to me and talk, anymore. I guess I should thank Claude for that…”

Felix smirks. After the golden boy outcast did a jig with the professor, everyone else had gathered their courage to ask her, as well. “You like the popularity.”

She shakes her head once more. “I like the familiarity. People look at me and see a professor. Or, well…” She purses her lips. “They see me as Byleth. And I… I _am_ Byleth. My father said that since coming here, I’ve become more expressive. I like to think I’ve become more human. And being here, with everyone else, helps that feeling grow.”

_More human?_ he wants to ask, but he’s already gotten much more than he was expecting. He stands there for a moment processing it.

“Is that secret up to standard?” Byleth asks, something teasing in her tone.

“Maybe,” he says, and when she elbows him, he snorts. “Yes, that’s… That’s a secret. Thank you, for telling me.”

Byleth’s jaw drops. “Did you just—”

“_Anyway_,” Felix cuts in. He immediately regrets it, because in warding off one topic he didn’t want to explore, he now has to uphold his end of the bargain and go into a different topic he would rather not share. _But maybe,_ a small voice whispers, _she can help. Just by listening._

His professor has always known how to play off of his strengths and weaknesses, after all.

He sighs. “I’m waiting to dance with someone. But I’m not sure they even want to dance, anymore.”

“And why is that?”

A shrug. “Because no one can deal with my _charm_ forever. This is… it might be the first time I’ve successfully pushed them away for so long.”

Byleth regards him silently, and he finds that once he starts speaking, it’s hard to stop.

“I’ve spent a good portion of my life keeping something a secret. Yet, recently, it keeps leaking out. Like someone has broken the latch on the gate, and it keeps sneaking out when I would give _anything_ to keep it right where it is.” His words are steady, though he chooses them carefully. “It would ruin me if I let it go, yet it still… persists.” He pauses. _How far am I going to go with this? _

“These past few weeks, it’s gotten so close to springing out. I almost said it, and I… I _wanted_ to.” The realization there shocks him, and he blinks, something snapping into place as the world damn near spins. He digs his nails into his palms, but they’re too blunt to give him any pinpricks to focus on.

“Felix?”

He blinks at Byleth, whose brows are furrowed. Dimly, he recognizes the concern there. For once, it doesn’t irritate him.

“You don’t have to say it, if you don’t want to.”

“I do,” he says, and the truth rings through him. “I _do_. And I _did_. I wanted to, _so badly_, but I know—I _know…!_” He buries a hand in his hair, in the usual tight, tied-back locks. “It’d ruin _everything_. Why do I want to ruin it all for something so…” He runs through so many words in his head: heavy, frivolous, childish, unnecessary. “So _selfish_? Why can’t I take things the way they are, and be grateful what I have for once?”

Selfish is a better word than he would like to admit. That’s what he’s been; that’s the best word to describe his entire issue right now. Too focused on protecting himself, keeping distance to feel better about his own emotional vulnerability and hurting and ignoring people in the process. Byleth said he was charming to a specific kind of person. _Yeah, the ones who are okay with bearing callouses to deal with me._

“You speak vaguely, so I don’t know for certain if I can help, but…”

He looks to Byleth, and he hates how he feels so stripped bare, vulnerable right here in front of everyone. _Not in front of everyone. I’m here, on the sidelines. Only one other person is watching me. It’s not that bad._ Then why does he feel like he’s about to be gutted?

Byleth stares at him, gaze her usual blank affair until he looks deeper and sees the knowledge there, the _intent_. “I ruined everything I knew, when I came here. I had little say in the matter, I’ll admit.” She smiles at him, and the sincerity in it rocks through him. “But I wouldn’t change it for the world. Becoming a professor, of all things, is the best thing I’ve ever done. Perhaps letting ‘it’ run rampant will ruin something, but that doesn’t mean it won’t let something wonderful bloom as well.”

He feels himself fluster under her gaze. It feels like a confession, but perhaps he’s truly stricken by it because he can contribute the year so far to her. Where would the Lions be without their professor? Without _Byleth_? Perhaps he should thank her for that, instead: for choosing them. And… for not giving up on him even now, when he still wraps his words in obscurity.

Instead, he huffs and looks down, staring holes into the floor. “This isn’t a matter of lifestyle, professor.” He sighs, and his next words come out softer. He hates it, hates how simple it is to be soft. How… freeing. “It’s more… internal.”

“Well,” she says, “you need to decide if you’ll regret it. The way you say it, it sounds like… like no matter what, you’re going to say it at some point. Would you rather it be when you _choose_, or… when it’s an accident? Or… too late?”

He clenches his jaw, turning his head minutely towards her. A small admission of him still listening.

She has the smallest smile on her lips, a secret all on its own. Like she’s laughing with herself. “You can’t turn back the hands of time, Felix. We need to take charge while we can, or else _everything_ will unravel, and we’ll be stuck in the flow of time without something to hang onto.”

It sounds far deeper than any advice he needs, really, but it helps all the same. He nods, another small admission, and Byleth reaches for his arm before stopping right before contact.

“Right,” she says, eyes soft. “No touching.”

Felix mutters something that sounds vaguely like gratitude.

Thankfully, she doesn’t ask him to repeat himself. She doesn’t even marvel at how she’s gotten Felix to admit he’s grateful _twice_ in one conversation. “I hope your night goes well, Felix,” she says instead, pushing herself off the wall. She prepares herself to walk back into the fray. “And I hope that you decide what to do with your… secret.”

He watches her as she walks away. When she’s almost immediately apprehended by a blushing female student who bows and probably asks for a dance, Felix himself walks away, though he pointedly avoids the dancing at all costs. Instead, he heads outside, into the cold night air.

To think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two posts from me in one night? wow
> 
> thanks to everyone who commented/kudo'd last chapter (and who have left feedback at all really!) because you're all so kind and seeing excitement for this story just,,, it makes me soft, man. i think i've said that a billion times already but i'm so glad y'all enjoy it!
> 
> the next chapter is the last! wow, right? i haven't actually finished a fic before so that's super exciting for me. i hope you're all excited because i sure as heck hyped myself up for it!! (but i also hope you enjoyed THIS chapter, as always c:) have a good day (or night, it's late here right now) and be kind to yourselves, please!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Alright. Translate this."

The Goddess Tower is supremely overrated, but it’s quiet even during a party. Perfect for someone to escape and get some peace of mind, to _breathe_. Felix runs his fingers along the stone wall, giving himself some sort of sensation to balance out how loud his thoughts are. There’s an opening leading to some sort of balcony, and he takes it, craving the cold air on his skin.

It reminds him of Faerghus. Of home. Perhaps that will ease him further.

He props his forearms on the barrier preventing anyone from walking to their death and leans, sighing.

It’s a miracle this place isn’t brimming with lovestruck couples. The legend passed around the monastery found just about everyone’s ears, he would think: if two people share a wish in this tower on this night, it will come true. It’s the kind of romantic bullshit that tosses Felix’s stomach, at this rate. He can’t tell if he should call it butterflies or nausea.

Either way, it’s a conflicted feeling at best, not helping his state at all. Sure, he left the stifling arena that was the ball to _think_, but he’s not certain which mental path to take first. Byleth hadn’t even said something soul-shattering. Her words had one simple message to glean: Felix won’t know the results until he sees them for himself. He won’t know if he’ll truly regret it unless he does it at all.

He could ruin a friendship, but something else could rise from the ashes.

But what happens after that? What if it doesn’t work out, and both the friendship _and _the ‘something else’ disappear? It’s a risk-reward comparison right now, and Felix is almost certain that the risks outweigh the rewards.

The rewards, however, are _very_ convincing.

He couldn’t even _say it_ to Byleth. Granted, she’s not his closest friend, but Felix isn’t even sure he can say it to himself. It strikes him like lightning, then: he’s never allowed himself to speak it. The words have floated around in his head, tied to an anchor and left to drown. How in the flames of Ailell is he supposed to come forth if he wraps it all in obscurity and pretends it doesn’t even exist?

Felix takes a breath. “I’m in love.”

When the world doesn’t explode, he adds in a whisper, “With Sylvain.”

He waits.

And waits.

And nothing happens. The world keeps on as usual. People keep dancing. The stars still shine. He realizes, then, that tying _love_ to an anchor has weighed his entire being down. There’s a certain freedom to admitting it, to owning up to it, to… accepting it, isn’t there? But now the secret is out. The Goddess herself only knows how far it will run before Felix can catch it again.

_Idiot. Now you want to tell him, now you **will** tell him._

_Now it’s there, now you don’t have to fear it anymore._

He sighs, bowing his head as the two sides tear at each other.

“Huh. I’m surprised to only find one person here.”

Felix damn near jumps out of his skin, spinning around with a hand feeling at his hip. Right, there’s a ball going on, and balls have apparently no place for swords in them. He relaxes by a margin when he recognizes his company. Only by a margin, for obvious reasons. “_Sylvain,_” he hisses. “What are you doing here?”

“Gee.” Sylvain spreads his arms, palms out. Innocent. “Would you believe me if I said I was lonely?”

“No.” Sylvain, _lonely_? No way in hell, especially on a night like this, when just about everyone falls under the sway of the night and longs to be swept off their feet.

“Ah. Guess I shouldn’t be surprised.” Sylvain reaches to play with the hairs on the back of his own neck, tugging and twisting them around his fingers. Felix finds himself distracted by the motion. “You know, I could ask you the same question. Maybe we’ll find my answer, too.”

“And that means?”

Sylvain pauses for the briefest of moments, eyes flitting over Felix’s face. His expression shifts into something more carefree, more publicly Sylvain, and he shrugs. “I saw you leave the ball. Thought I’d come find out why.”

There it is: honey in Felix’s veins, giving him a rush when it hasn’t even been earned. _Sylvain cares for his friends, this isn’t unusual._ “I don’t like parties,” he says.

“I know.”

“Then you shouldn’t be worried about where I go when I escape them.”

“I wasn’t _worried_, I just…” Sylvain looks down, as if the words he wants are there, plain as day to read on the floor. “I wanted to go with you, okay? To talk. We haven’t danced yet—I’ve barely seen you dance at all tonight.”

“Our lessons are done.” Felix snorts, shaking his head. “I don’t have to dance with anyone anymore.” They aren’t the harshest words he’s ever said, but they feel sharp coming out solely because of the deal they made last week. He chooses not to acknowledge the _to talk_ part of Sylvain’s reasoning; they’re talking right now, isn’t that enough?

“I know that! I—Goddess…” A hand (sadly, not Felix’s) goes through that red hair, and there’s a frown on Sylvain’s face, pulling those impossible features down. “You said you’d save a dance for me. I thought… I thought you might want to.”

Felix bites his tongue before he can reply, _I do_. Because that’s a lie; he _doesn’t_. Doing that would prolong his emotional torture further than planned, and he doesn’t feel like being a masochist tonight. It’s a bad idea, he’s been telling himself this for _years_.

Yet Byleth’s words ring in the back of his head, reminding him that sooner or later it’s all going to come out anyway, because the world is cruel and Felix doesn’t have an impenetrable vault specifically for romantic attraction.

“I thought,” Sylvain continues, “that you wanted to, by the end. That it wasn’t just work for you anymore. It… It was fun. I had fun. I thought you did, too. I thought you would dance with me tonight, because we got good at it. And then you left, and I saw you heading here, and I thought you were… meeting someone.”

Felix is pretty sure he makes a face much like a fish’s—gaping, wide-eyed. Incredulously, he asks, “Why in the _hell_ would I be meeting someone here?”

“You know the legends!” Sylvain says, frustration roughening his words. “Lovers meet and make a wish, and it comes true. Something out of a fairytale.”

“You think I have a _lover_?”

“I don’t know!” Now Sylvain’s voice edges on a shout. He reins himself in, though he sounds petulant. “I—You barely tell me anything, anymore. Maybe you were keeping a secret from me.”

_Bullshit. I tell you everything._ Does he, though? He can think of at least one glaring thing he has yet to tell Sylvain. He remembers Mercedes asking, _Does he know you want to help him?_ Make that two. Felix rolls his eyes, stabbing the part of him that’s a softhearted idiot in the back. “I wouldn’t bring a girl here, Sylvain.”

“It doesn’t have to be a girl.”

Felix stiffens. It takes a moment for him to recover, to pick out his response. “It doesn’t,” he says slowly.

Something flashes over Sylvain’s face. Something soft like relief, yet sharp like shock. He gives the smallest shake of his head, rewinding the conversation. “You used to tell me _everything_, Felix.” There should be a _What happened?_ at the end of that, but they both already know the answer to that question. “And I listened, to every single word. Whenever you let yourself open up, I tried to be there. I tried to be a good… a good friend. But now I look at you, and I see a puzzle. I have to figure out what you mean. I thought I had gotten good at it, by now, but…”

He shakes his head. “But then I thought you, _Felix Hugo Fraldarius_, were coming to the Goddess Tower to make a wish with your lover. I had to see it for myself.” His voice drops to a mutter. “But I _hoped_...”

Felix feels lightheaded. “You hoped…?”

Sylvain growls and drags his hand through his hair again, sending it into even harsher waves and spikes. He paces back and forth. He sounds like he’s having an entirely separate conversation with himself, considering how much sense he’s making. “Because I like dancing with you! Because I’m damn near immune to whatever venom you try to spit at me. Because I’ve known you since we were kids, and you never once treated me differently because of a fucking Crest.”

He stops pacing and takes a step towards Felix, who grips the barrier behind him with white knuckles. “You’re my best friend, Fe. I… I don’t want to lose you.”

“To a _lover_?” Felix laughs, though the sound is far higher pitched than he would usually go, and it reeks of incredulity. This entire scenario reeks of _irony_. “Sylvain, you wouldn’t… _lose me_ because I found someone to make wishes with in an old, cold tower.”

“But I _would_!” Sylvain’s eyes are wide, pleading. “You wouldn’t leave me, but I’d lose you. Because I don’t… I _couldn’t_…”

Felix’s mental processes have mainly shut off, at this point. That warm honey drained a while ago, and now he feels numb, lost in how turbulent their conversation has become. All he wanted was some peace and fucking quiet, and now…? “You’re not making any sense.”

“Now you know how _I_ feel!” Sylvain laughs, the sound harsher than any laugh Felix has heard from those lips. He quickly decides he hates the sound. “I wish you knew how hard it was, _is_, to have to figure you out when I used to be your closest confidant. But, I’m _still_…”

“You still are,” Felix says, feeling incredibly small despite his strong voice. Sylvain, tall as he is, does not help matters. He hates the feeling, but you can’t exactly challenge a feeling to a duel to make yourself feel better.

“Then why don’t you talk to me?”

“I do.”

“I mean _talk_, Felix. _Honestly_. About what you’re thinking without me having to dissect all of your words.”

That’s when his defense decides to kick in, anger flaring up as he glares at Sylvain. “What about _you_, huh?”

_That_ makes Sylvain backpedal, and he looks like Felix just slapped him. “Me?”

“Yeah, _you_.” Felix balls his fists, steeling himself before he goes on a Goddess-damn tirade. _Here it goes._ “You think I’m hard to understand? You wear a mask every second of your life! You’re always trying to do things for _me_, but when are you going to talk? You always make it out like it’s your fucking duty to help me out, to listen, but then I—I barely get anything from you!”

“Fe—”

“And I never have! You—you put yourself on the _line_ for me, when you should worry about your own damn self first. If we’re friends, this is supposed to go _two ways_, Sylvain.” Damn it all, his eyes burn. _Crybaby, crybaby_. “I want… I want to _help_ you, you idiot! But you don’t talk, you don’t _open up_ to _let me_, you’re always putting on a face. This month, I saw the mask slip. And, shit, I can’t remember the last time that happened.”

This probably isn’t what Mercedes had in mind when they talked earlier this month, but here Felix is, saying those damned words: _I want to help you_. Among others. “How do you expect me to lean on you when you rarely ever lean on me? So what, if I don’t talk as much as I used to? I’ve taken advantage of you damn near from the start, and even _now_, I—”

Sylvain looks affronted, but Felix can pinpoint the moment those brown eyes watch his own face crumble because they widen with alarm.

Felix’s breath hiccups once. _Pathetic._

“I don’t want to be a _leech_ anymore. You rarely give me the chance to repay any of my debts. Instead you just… go on with your life, with your persona you’ve built up. You sweet talk women you don’t even care about. You slack off despite the fact that you constantly try to help others in battle, and it’s going to get you killed one day because you’re going to throw yourself into the fray for someone and not give a shit about what happens to you. And then I’ll lose you, and I…” He shakes his head. “It’d—I—” A growl, then, and a swear. Because he can’t say it, _can’t say it_. He shuts his eyes; not looking at him helps, right? Still, the words feel like they’re punched out of him, like he shoves them out before they can freeze in his throat forever. They’re short, staccato bursts: “It. Would. _Ruin._ Me.”

His nails have left crescents in his palms at this point. Sylvain takes a breath, as if to speak, but Felix cuts him off because if he stops now, he’ll never say it, and Byleth was right: he’ll regret it.

He’ll regret _this_, too. But he’s too tired to pull himself back up the cliff he just jumped off.

“I try to _show you_ what you mean to—you—” His throat closes. He starts to think he’s cursed. He breathes and tries again with open eyes. “You learned to read me before anyone else. You understand me better than anyone else. I thought it was enough, but it’s not. So here I am, trying to talk, and _that’s_ not enough either. Because I’m a shit friend and I keep—I keep making it about _me_. We haven’t even talked this week because I said something stupid and couldn’t figure out how to make it right again.”

Felix swipes at his eyes and bristles at the dampness he feels there. He grits his teeth, refusing to look at Sylvain. That’s enough mortification for one night. “_There_. Are you satisfied?”

Silence. Byleth was right again: he ruined something. But nothing’s blooming. Nothing beautiful comes from it. His only solace is a weight that lifts from his shoulders. Something falls from where it’s been holding down his heart, giving it room to beat. He hasn’t said it all, but it’s a start, and he feels… lighter.

Even if he knows he’s made a mistake.

It’s quiet, so fucking _quiet_, and Felix feels it start to crawl up his back, over his skin, up his neck and into his hair with hot claws that _scorch_. His face burns, his scalp prickles, he feels the heat go as far as his shoulders. He can’t tell if it’s a blush or the flush that comes from crying, and he doesn’t care because either reason is _awful_. He feels cornered on the spot, standing out with this half-wall at his back and Sylvain in the way of him fleeing this Goddess-forsaken tower. It’s worse than the White Heron Cup because at least there, he knew what he had to do to get a good score.

He doesn’t know what the judge thinks _here_, because he refuses to look at him. Instinct tells him he just failed.

He bites the inside of his cheek hard enough to sting. _This is why I don’t talk. This is why I push them away. I was right, I’ve **been right**._ The light feeling isn’t worth the dread hanging over his head right now. The rate at which he’s flipping between being relieved and devastated is dizzying.

“I’m going back,” he says, rushed, relying solely on his speed as he pushes for the opening, to squeeze past Sylvain and fly down the stairs. With any luck, Sylvain will stand there and let him.

Felix’s luck seems to have run out. Sylvain’s too fucking broad and takes up too much space because he’s _Sylvain_. He stops Felix with an arm, twisting in front of him to take him by the shoulders. Felix can see his face at the edge of his vision, but he refuses to focus there, refuses to see whatever horrid expression awaits him.

“Let me go.” It comes out too soft, too _weak_. His lips pull back, baring his teeth, but it’s so fake it’s pitiful. “Let me _go_,” he tries again, trying to maneuver out of the way. “Forget I said anything.”

Sylvain releases him like he’s burning hot, like just doing that was a grave error. He says, “Don’t leave.”

The two words sound… wretched. But not in the way Felix predicted. It’s desperate, a plea.

“Look at me, Felix.”

Felix takes a breath, eyes slipping shut, but if everything else is crumbling before him, why not his resolve too? He digs in his mind, searching for his thorny vines to throw up, to become the prickly person he’s been for years. That crumbles, too.

When he looks up, he sees that Sylvain’s expression has twisted into something almost pained, a frown pulling his mouth down and eyes probing at his, making sure he’s looking. “You’re my _best friend_, how could you ever think you’re a… leech?”

_I want more. I don’t want to drain you dry. Fuck, why is it so hard to **talk?**_ The words hurt coming out, soft and tired. “You just _said so_, you idiot. _I_ just said so. I can’t communicate. You’re sick of translating. I want to help, but I don’t know how. Ring a bell?”

Sylvain takes the outburst with little more than a twitch of his eyebrow. “That’s… I…” He sighs, looking to the sky as if the Goddess will help him out with this. “That wasn’t what I meant. I’m just… I’m a _words_ guy. They’re all I have, most of the time. They’re the easiest to understand. I… I know what you do, what you mean. But…”

He sighs. “I want to _hear it_. I need to.”

Felix laughs, the noise cruel and hollow as he withdraws further and further back to his normal, his _safety_. It’s hard, considering the tear tracks down his face, but he likes to think he’s pulling it off well enough despite how his voice rings with emotional exhaustion. _Just let me go._ “Well I don’t. Guess we’re a bad pair.”

“_Don’t_,” Sylvain says, “say that.”

“I thought you wanted me to talk.”

“Talk _honestly._ I can tell when you’re lying, Felix.”

That trips him up in his mad dash back to his old ways. He blinks.

“You communicate. That’s fine. I shouldn’t hold that against you. We speak different languages, is all.” Sylvain’s lips twitch into a smile. A sad, small smile. “I talk. But apparently I’m not much good at it, given the past week.”

“No shit,” Felix says quietly.

Sylvain tilts his head at him, raising an eyebrow. “And _you_ dip all your words in poison like it’s second nature.”

He sighs. “Sylvain, I’m not going to sit here and let you call me—"

“You do things for people, right?” Sylvain’s voice lowers. “That’s how you show me. How you show others. Because people don’t notice that as much. You’ll jump to their aid in battle, but undercut it by calling them stupid so the two things even out.” His eyes soften. “You bring them dinner because you can’t bear to say _thank you_ because then, they’ll know you care. But I already know.”

_You don’t know how much_. No, that’s not a jab. That’s self-sabotage. “Took you long enough to figure it out.” That is, too, but Sylvain apparently already knows that secret. It’s no use hiding something that’s in bright lights, at this point.

“No, I knew. All this made me forget. I got… distracted. My mind went elsewhere.”

“… Careless as always.” It’s unnerving, how he sounds like he’s just doing a bad impression of himself. Sylvain would see through whatever show he put on, anyway. Why bother?

Sylvain shakes his head at him slowly. It’s the only sign that he heard him at all. “Goddess, I got sidetracked even here. I came here to say something, but everything turned upside down. Then you…”

Felix growls. “Don’t say it.”

Sylvain heeds that, at least, but his hands move slowly to swipe his thumbs over the dried tracks on Felix’s face. They do little more than smear the bitter trails further, but there’s a softness in the action that makes Felix _want_ to melt. He won’t melt because he knows he’s reading this all wrong. Instead, he’ll toughen up, wrap up in barbs, and prepare for when this all ends.

“I’m sorry this week happened the way it did,” Sylvain says. “I had to do some thinking.”

_Any moment now._

“So,” he continues, “you’re _not_ waiting here for anyone.”

Felix can’t find half as many barbs as he needs right now. “Of course not.”

“Then I have something to say.”

Felix’s stupid heart gives a kick, and his eyes widen a fraction. Apprehension rears its ugly head. “… What is it?” he asks, though it comes out in a suspicious monotone.

Sylvain’s face looks oddly resigned. Like he’s giving into something, yet there’s a fondness there too that resonates in his voice. “You speak in actions,” he says, thoughtful, and he’s so _serious_. Why is he so fucking serious?

It makes Felix’s face burn. _Stop looking at me like that_. “I _just_ confirmed that, yes.”

Those hands adjust, cupping his jaw and sending shockwaves through him. Felix’s eyes widen further, but Sylvain’s just dip down to—to his _mouth_, right? That’s where his mouth is. Why do they hone in there? Why do they flare?

Sylvain takes a breath. Braces himself. “Alright,” he says. “Translate this.”

Felix tries to say his name, but he’s lost his voice, his mouth moving uselessly over the syllables.

Then, Sylvain kisses him.

The rest of his barbs fall away.

Whatever Felix used to think this would be like flies out the Goddess-damned window. He remembers thinking it’d be soft, following whispered confessions after a day spent together. Then he played with the idea of a more passionate embrace, before he realized that thinking about that would send his face into a raging blush that was hard to explain away. Then he thought it wouldn’t happen at all, because he wasn’t going to let himself get hurt and (worse) lose the best friend he’s ever had.

Obviously, all of those are wrong, and he can’t decide if he’s disappointed or not. His ears ring, eyes wide open and staring at Sylvain’s closed ones. His mouth may go slack, he’s not entirely sure because they’re _kissing_—or, Sylvain is kissing him. There’s a big difference there, because if _they_ were kissing, if Felix participated even the _slightest_, then Sylvain wouldn’t be pulling back from him, looking like someone just shattered him to pieces.

Felix says, “Oh.”

Sylvain laughs. It’s a soft sound, cracking at the edges. He drops his eyes, hands falling back to Felix’s shoulders, head bowing. “Is that enough action for you? Do you get it now?”

Felix can’t speak.

“Goddess, I’m an _idiot_…” Those hands tighten their grip on Felix’s shoulders. Not to hold him in place, but… like he’s a tether. Like Sylvain needs him in order to stand, right now. “I thought—I don’t know what I thought. You didn’t even… I’m so sorry.”

He won’t look at him. Felix _desperately_ needs him to. “Sylvain.”

“I _know_, okay? I shouldn’t have done that, because now I’ll lose you. Because I’m such an impulsive fool—insatiable, right? That’s what you used to say.”

Having his words thrown back at him almost makes Felix flinch. He swallows hard and reaches, slowly, to grip Sylvain’s wrists. “_Sylvain_.”

“_What_?”

“Come back.”

“… What?” He finally looks up, some hair falling into his eyes, brow furrowed, and he’s flushed to hell and back.

Felix squeezes his wrists. “Come _back_.” Is this an awful idea? He can’t even tell anymore because it feels like everything he knows has been tossed about, spilling everything out on the floor. That box in his mind flies open, every stupid bit of affection scrambling out into the open. It’s hopeful, and despite the logic in his head screaming to _run away_, to not even _dare_, he says, “Try again.”

_Please, please_.

“You—” Sylvain makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like he’s been punched. “Felix, don’t be cruel. Don’t make some sort of training joke. That was stupid of me, I’m sorry.”

“You’re forgiven.”

Sylvain pauses, then shakes his head, guilt eating away at his expression. “You didn’t even do anything, you just sat there—”

Felix’s grip on his wrists could very well take his hands off, at this rate. Sylvain quiets, and Felix says, slowly, “Because I don’t know how.”

“… Fe, you can’t be serious.”

Irritation flares up. “Do I look like I’m joking?”

“No! No, I just… you’ve _never_ kissed anyone?”

“I would have told you if I did.”

“_No one._ Like, no childhood sweetheart…”

“You know damn well I never had one of those.” Felix loosens his grip, fingers hanging loosely. He should feel caged in, but he’s determined to get to the redo, dammit. “I… I’ve never been interested, in that. Not for anyone else.”

“Anyone _else_?”

His face burns. “Sylvain.” Their faces are so close, but he still feels the need to say: “Get back here before I leave this damn tower and never talk to you again.”

“Okay, okay… Let’s not do anything we’ll regret.” Funny, considering their situation. “… Take the lead.”

“_Excuse me_?”

“Kissing isn’t a solo activity,” Sylvain says, blush rising on his cheeks at his words. _Since when has Sylvain ever blushed over talking about **kissing?**_ “I need to make sure you want this, so… take the lead.”

“I _want this_.” So badly, but now he’s stuck arguing. “Isn’t that good enough for you? You _just_ said you need words.”

“Actions speak louder than words, right?”

Felix clenches his jaw, then sighs. “Have you _ever_ followed a lead for this?”

“No.” Sylvain’s thumbs swipe back and forth in a soothing motion over Felix’s shoulders. To soothe himself or Felix, no one can tell. “But I could. I already followed your lead once, remember…?”

Felix’s hands fall from his wrists and reach, tentative and shaky, for Sylvain’s jaw. Much like he’d been held only moments before, but without the assured firmness that was in Sylvain’s hands. “I hate you.”

“Lesson one: that’s not what you say before you kiss someone.”

“I know,” Felix says, tilting his head up. Sylvain (thankfully) has the good graces to meet him halfway. His heart beats like a rabbit’s, like he’s sprinting for his life, but he’s just standing on a balcony. With his best friend’s face in his hands. About to kiss him. Any moment now. His face feels like it’s on _fire_. Carefully, slowly enough so that Sylvain can shove him away when he realizes this is a bad idea, he brings their lips together, eyes slipping shut.

He tries to mimic what Sylvain had done, tries to move with it, but there are far too many nuances to kissing for him to figure it out from one brief demonstration. He feels Sylvain sigh through his nose before he tilts his head, and—_oh_. Okay, that makes it better.

He’s woefully outmatched here. But Sylvain doesn’t pull back and complain. He doesn’t crack a joke about how this is the one thing he’s better at. Instead, they just… kiss. Slowly, and Felix mirrors as best as he can considering he only has the feeling of their lips together to guide him. He realizes that this isn’t a _fight_, so he can’t really be outmatched. It’s more akin to their dancing. They follow each other’s steps, paying attention to their subtle reactions.

Something in his chest falls and won’t _stop_ falling, and he feels incredibly warm for someone standing in the cold winter air.

His hands fall to Sylvain’s neck, and one threads its fingers through the hair Sylvain played with before, finally experiencing something he used to imagine so many times. It also, thankfully, gives him a grip to send a message, to _pull_. _Closer, closer_.

His message reaches its destination with Sylvain edging closer, hands sliding to his waist. Felix shudders, though you’ll fail to make him admit it at any other time. A shaky exhale follows when they part, and his eyes take a moment to open again. He’s scared that when he does, he’ll wake up from whatever cruel dream this is.

Sylvain’s smile looks dazed on his lips. “Hey.”

Felix tries to respond and makes an unintelligible noise. He can only halfheartedly glare when Sylvain snickers. “Hello.”

“Is this okay?”

“Yes,” Felix says. “_Yes_.”

Sylvain just smiles in response to that, and Felix feels that same thing that was freefalling in his chest start to melt. Yet with all the elation, the _euphoria_, that runs through him, there’s also a looming fear. That this isn’t real, or that something’s _wrong_. One and a half kisses can’t ruin everything, can they? _Of course they can. That’s why I’ve been avoiding them._ But Sylvain was the one to initiate, _Sylvain_ was the one to start all of this. Could that mean that…

“What happens now?”

“… Well, I thought we’d keep kissing, if that’s alright with you…”

“No, no, I mean…” Felix’s gaze darts between those eyes, like he’ll find differing responses depending on where he looks. “_After_. What does this mean, Sylvain? I…” _I’ve wanted this for years, and I’m afraid that now that I’ve finally indulged, something awful will happen. _He doesn’t say that, because Sylvain is right: he can’t speak well. Not anymore. He’s out of practice. “What’s going to change?”

Sylvain frowns, and Felix’s heart drops before he realizes it’s more thoughtful than anything. He’s in a whirlwind right now, flying from extreme to new, damned extreme. “I…” Sylvain swallows, and Felix watches the movement of his throat. He seems at a loss for words.

As soon as he figures out what he wants to say, Felix chokes on the words. Not from tears because those have already wreaked their havoc. No, fear clogs his throat because he’s not sure he wants to hear the answer. He _needs_ it, though, so he asks anyway. “If this doesn’t go well, will that be the end of it? And then I’ll—we’ll never see—"

“Goddess, Felix, _no_!” Sylvain’s grip on his waist tightens, edging him closer. “_No_. That won’t happen at all. You’re not—you’re not that, to me. And I’m so, _so_ scared of screwing this up because _that_ is all I know. Shallow relationships and… harsh heartbreaks.” He looks humbled by his own words, eyes downcast, and then his grip loosens. “You don’t deserve that. You deserve a good, honest man. I want so _desperately_ to be that, so I… so I deserve you.”

“It’s not about _deserve_, you idiot.” The name comes out softer than usual, probably because Felix’s lips still buzz. “It’s about you, and me, and _us_. I know what I want—” _Do I? Yes, yes I do._ “—and you know what you want. That’s what matters. I just…” The rest leaves him in a breath: “I don’t want this to ruin us.”

“… Do you remember the promise?”

Of course he does. It plagues him every time he thinks of Sylvain and that thing in his chest twists. He recites, “We’ll stick together until we die.”

“That’s what I want. That’s why I don’t want anything to change. I… I’m still your best friend. I want you to be mine, but I also…” Sylvain shakes his head, a rueful smile on his lips. There’s the softest of laughs. He leans in, lips grazing Felix’s temple, and says, “I want you to _be mine_. I want to be able to do things like that. And I want to do right by you.”

All those years of pining and locking things up seem a little silly, now. But with it all out in the open like that, it’s… it’s not as scary. Nothing’s ruined, really. Not yet. Felix holds himself back from jumping to any more conclusions, deciding to turn his focus on to how the buzz on his lips is dying. “Then do it, and stop running your mouth.”

Sylvain gives a full laugh at that. “You’re the one who started this conversation.”

“Because _you_ weren’t kissing me.” It sounds petty on his tongue.

“You’re right. I’m sorry.” Their foreheads press together. “However can I make it up to you?” Sylvain asks, a shit-eating grin on his face.

“Saints, just come _here_.”

Sylvain indulges him, catching his lips firmer than when Felix had initiated. Turns out, Felix _is_ a fast learner, and he’s catching up to this quickly. His neck hurts from tilting back, so he stands up taller, on his toes, and wraps his arms around Sylvain’s neck. It brings their chests together; pairing that with the hands around his waist, Felix _should_ feel trapped. But he doesn’t.

He feels… _something_. But not trapped. He swipes his tongue at Sylvain’s lip, remembering some sort of talk about _tongue_ involved in kissing. It feels like the right thing to do.

Apparently it very much is, because Sylvain makes a noise low in his throat and walks them back, back to that stupid half-wall, his hands gripping tighter. He pulls back to rasp out, “Brace yourself.”

Felix gets the idea just as he starts to lift, so he gives an odd hop to sit on the barrier, bringing him up marginally higher. _Sylvain can lift me_, he thinks once again, sort of drunk on the giddy feeling it sends through him. _Giddy? Ugh…_

He has no time to think too much about his awful choice of words, because Sylvain steps in the natural part his legs provide, opening his mouth. It turns out there’s a whole _other_ way to kiss, and it does downright intoxicating things to Felix’s mind. He brings a hand back to touching Sylvain’s face, to smoothing over his cheek with a thumb, to climbing up into his hair and twisting the strands around his fingers because it’s so much better than he could ever have thought.

Sylvain keeps one arm around Felix to keep him from falling. The barrier itself is wide, he’s not _too_ worried, but the reassurance is… nice. So is the hint of teeth on his lower lip.

Some pathetic, tiny noise leaves him. That’s… embarrassing.

Sylvain pulls away once more, and by now he _has_ to feel as dizzy as Felix does, right? But he doesn’t let up with his mouth, instead kissing over Felix’s cheek, to his jaw, down to low on his neck where he pauses and sucks, the slightest hint of teeth making Felix shiver. Without Sylvain’s mouth to muffle him, Felix’s stupid gasp sounds raucous in this quiet space of theirs.

Sylvain’s free hand has traveled up his back, to his hair, to the tie restraining it. He pointedly taps the bun. “Let me?”

Felix hesitates before nodding. The tie comes off, his hair tumbling to his shoulders, and Sylvain’s hand immediately dives into it, just as eager as Felix was to feel _his_ hair apparently.

“Let’s promise again,” Sylvain says, breath playing over the spot on Felix’s neck. He kisses in his pauses. “Make a wish, right here. We’re—we’re lovers, it’ll come true.” He laughs, radiant. “We’re _lovers_…”

“What are you—?”

“I promise that I’m with you to the end. I wish to be with you until we both stop breathing.” Sylvain comes back and kisses him like he needs it, like _that’s_ what seals the wish. “Will you promise?” he asks, breathy. His eyes bore into Felix’s.

It’s childish. Unrealistic. They’re training to become soldiers, they’re thrown into perilous situations regularly now. They have bloodlines and legacies and duties. This is nothing but a teenage fantasy that could never possibly come to fruition in the real world. And yet. And _yet_…

“I promise.” Felix wishes for it, too. It can’t hurt to see if this legend’s true, can it? “If you even _try_ to die before me—”

Sylvain shuts him up with yet another kiss, but it’s short compared to their others. He laughs again. “I won’t. Not now, not ever.”

Felix chases his lips, tugs on his lower one with his teeth. When Sylvain gives a full-body shudder, he says, “Less _talking_.” Even though those words send his heart into spirals. Even though he’s sure he desperately needed to hear them. He expresses himself when he presses forward with his lips, his tongue, and when Sylvain makes another indecent noise, he snatches it into his memory greedily.

When they break apart again, they’re short of breath. Sylvain looks… delightful, honestly. “But I have to sing your praises. I have to court you _properly_—”

“Sylvain.”

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

Sylvain makes a choked noise at that, and Felix feels a swoop in his ribcage as the secret takes off.

“Now stop worrying about _courtship_,” he says, breath ghosting over Sylvain’s jawline. He presses a kiss there. “You can ask me to dinner tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Sylvain says, voice thin, and he falls silent for a few moments before: “Hey, Fe?”

_For the love of—_“What?”

“I’m not dreaming, right?”

Felix smiles against the skin of his neck, fond. “I hope not.”

“Then, would you do me a favor?”

He rolls his eyes. “Does it involve more kissing?” _Let’s get back to that part, please._

“No, I…” Sylvain pulls back a margin to take Felix’s face in his hands again, eyes locking. “Say that again.” A small smile. “I liked it.”

Felix’s face blooms bright red all over again. “What?”

“I love you.”

Immediately: “I love you too.”

The responding smile puts the sun to shame, and Felix has half a mind to squint against it or else he’ll go blind. But it’s gorgeous, _Sylvain_ is gorgeous, so he won’t.

“It’s real,” Sylvain whispers. “This is real.”

A rare grin blooms on Felix’s face.

Neither of them can tell who initiates the next kiss, but Felix knows that it’s eager and hopeful as his eyes flutter closed. They stop talking for a while after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> small disclaimer: always ask before you kiss someone, kids. real life isn't a fanfiction!
> 
> so that's???? the end?????????? holy heck???????????????????????????? like first of all thank you all so much for sticking along for the ride. y'all who kudo'd and commented your hearts out really did so much for my motivation and, as always, i'm so very grateful for the response! i know i say basically the same thing every chapter but,,, oh my god, it means so much
> 
> i'm super proud of finishing this and working up the courage to share it, and you all made sure i didn't regret it and that's just... amazing. hecking special thanks to one of my dear friends (who goes by opiax here on ao3) for being there to listen to me scream while i wrote so much of this story... you're a real one, pal
> 
> anyway! i'll be on twitter (@astronomicallie, plugs myself as usual) yelling for a while after this chapter goes up i bet just because i'm so???? i can't wait to see what ppl think, so please let me know!!!! have good nights & be kind to yourselves
> 
> edit 5/24/20: we've got art!!! thanks to HiNA for being an astounding artist, so glad i could commission him for [translate this](https://twitter.com/midoriyaizuhugs/status/1263987835666862082?s=20)


	7. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nows and afters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a long time coming, hope it was worth the wait for any who were waiting!

“Your hair’s gorgeous.”

“Oh, _ shut up _.”

Sylvain’s voice oozes mirth when he responds, “_ Never _. I’ve held these in for years— now’s my chance to make up for lost time.”

Felix huffs, feeling his ears heat up again. That doesn’t stop their sway— if anything, Sylvain is emboldened by the blush, exaggerating their back and forth motions further than is probably necessary with a pleased hum. This makes three compliments that Felix has had to weather since they came back into the Tower, retreating from the cold nipping at their skin. Three compliments too many, in his professional and honest opinion.

He has yet to pull away from Sylvain because of them, though. Despite his earlier words, Felix _ did _ promise a dance. He would rather share his only one of the night with Sylvain, considering… _ everything ._

Then, his brain hitches on something. “_ Years _,” he repeats, voice nearly going monotone.

“Uh…” Thank the goddess, _ Sylvain’s _ the one to blush at that, eyes widening at his own admission before they soften once more, the warm caramel tones getting caught in Felix’s brain and effectively stopping cognition for a few moments. “Yeah. Yeah, I think so, but I— I didn’t realize, until…” His smile leans to one side, apologetic and warm. “Until this month, I’m pretty sure.”

_ That’s _ something worth noting. His words race around Felix’s mind, ringing in some odd sort of echo as he tries basic problem solving in his mind. _ Years _ . Years, and they’re only now acting on anything. “That can’t be right,” he says, shaking his head, though he’s not sure if he wants Sylvain to confirm _ or _ deny it. “You couldn’t have—”

“Why not?” Sylvain urges, wrapping his arm the slightest bit snugger around Felix. “I already knew I _ loved _ you, I just… didn’t know how deeply.”

Felix’s gaze darts between his eyes, searching for any jest or lie, but he finds none. Warmth rises in his chest, less of a blush and more of a full-body rush of affection. “Idiot,” he says, soft and fond as he combs his fingers through Sylvain’s hair in a halfhearted attempt to fix some of the mess he caused. His eyes train on his ministrations there, just so he isn’t caught in the intensity of eye contact for too long. “Couldn’t figure out your own feelings, huh?”

Sylvain snorts, eyes going mischievous. “Now, _ that’s _ rich, coming from you.”

“I learned better, though.” He brings his hand down to trace at Sylvain’s neck, gazing at the mark that matches his own. He got Sylvain back as soon as he realized there was a mark on his own neck at all, diving for the skin with a mouth kissed red and muttering, _ If you get to pull that shit, I better collect in equal. _

Sylvain shuddered at the attention, an indecent noise falling from his lips, and Felix is certain that he’ll never forget how it sounded. He never understood the appeal of leaving a mark on your lover, but now that he has seen its effect on his, well, _ lover,_ all is clear.

“It got pretty hard to ignore how loud they were,” he continues, past the voice that sends the word ‘lover’ echoing through his mind.

Sylvain’s breath shakes in what could be considered a laugh, though Felix is certain it’s something trembling from his lungs as Felix’s thumb prods the small purple spot. His eyes ooze all that affection Felix has never seen directed at anyone else— no tricks, no gimmicks, just affection and warm syrup.

“Your smile’s beautiful, too.”

Said smile drops, and Felix shoves lightly at Sylvain’s chest when he hears the beginnings of a snicker. “Flatterer,” he says, rolling his eyes and willfully ignoring the blush rising high on his cheeks. It’s hard to keep the smile tamed away for too long, though, when Sylvain continues laughing. “You’re not getting any extra points for that.”

“Are you _ sure?_” Sylvain asks, easily closing the space between them once more as they continue their mindless sway. “Because you look pretty damn pleased about it.”

Felix makes a face (that elicits a snort from Sylvain). “You’re wearing rose-tinted lenses,” he says, brushing off the honey in Sylvain’s gaze. It’s a hard task, considering it catches on him so easily and oozes into his heart, making everything seem sweeter. “Everything you see looks better than it actually is, you enormous sap.”

“Hm. Then let me keep them on.” Sylvain continues to smile, the expression nestled so comfortably on his face like it truly belongs there, and Felix wonders if he’s wearing rosy glasses, himself when he realizes he can’t quite look away from the curve of it. “Because I don’t want to live in a world where I can’t see you like I do right now.”

“And how,” Felix asks, voice thin, “do you see me right now?”

Something bashful rises in Sylvain’s expression, but he doesn’t look away. Instead, he reaches to tip Felix’s chin with a bent finger, careful and intent. Felix’s eyes flutter like he’s already trained to expect a kiss from such a move, yet Sylvain simply says, “Like a dream.”

Felix mentally strangles himself to keep from barking an incredulous laugh right in his face. Instead, he cranes his head away (millimeters, but it feels like miles) and mutters, “That sounds like a line.”

“It isn’t a line. You look like you walked right out from behind my eyelids.” Sylvain’s voice tapers off, a flush trickling into his cheeks that Felix finds immensely amusing. “No one else has looked like… y’know.”

Felix snorts, but the sound wavers. “You don’t need to lie to flatter me further.”

“It’s not a lie.” Sylvain has gone back to cradling his face with a hand, bringing Felix right back into that close atmosphere they’ve cultivated. “I promise. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

And that’s where it becomes too much. That’s where the pool of affection and love and infatuation Felix has fallen into becomes too deep. He’s already opened up enough to feel like he has gutted himself, but the earnest sincerity in Sylvain’s eyes expose him all over again until he feels vulnerable. _ Too _ vulnerable.

Perhaps another time, he’ll be able to keep up with these sweeping confessions.

For now, he buries a hand in Sylvain’s hair, combing through the red locks with a reverence he’s rarely shown anything before. “You have _ no idea,”_ he says, matter-of-factly, “how long I’ve wanted to do this.”

Sylvain laughs, the sound wobbling. He accepts the topic change easily, like he understands. Felix wouldn’t be surprised if he did. “I would think so. You’ve barely given it a minute to rest tonight.”

It shows. His hair sticks up in five different directions, mussed but not the Sylvain brand of mussed. Felix feels a bit of pride in that, in ruffling his feathers as much as he himself feels ruffled. And they’ve both been waiting for this _ so long…_ Far shorter than he may have imagined, sure, but that’s because he never thought it would happen at all. Now that they’re here, that they _ could _ have been here ages ago…

“What have we done with our lives?” he asks, quiet. The words sound accusatory. Perhaps they were meant to be, but instead they’re thoughtful.

“Saints, I don’t know.” Sylvain tips his head up, presses his lips to Felix’s hairline, and Felix _ aches._ There’s a familiarity in that action that resonates just on the edge of too strongly, especially considering this is the only time Felix has ever experienced such a thing. Sylvain speaks into Felix’s hair, voice turned into a whisper. “Like I said, I’m making up for lost time. I’d rather us have this _ now,_ than never.”

Felix can’t argue with that. “Now,” he murmurs, and the weight of everything hits him, crashes over his mind like a great wave and washes away every bit of defense and denial until he’s left with nothing but their sway to guide him. They’ve been too busy kissing, gasping, and laughing into each other’s skin with the giddy rush of realization. But there’s still a _ now._ They’ve been _ in _ that now, and each bit of affection, physical or otherwise, trembles through Felix in what feels like aftershocks.

Vulnerable, indeed.

Sylvain hums an affirmation, breath still stirring Felix’s hair. “Hopefully, we have more than just now waiting for us.” Their sway slows to a stop, and he wraps his arms around Felix tighter, into more of a hug than anything else. “To the end, Fe.”

“To the end.” Felix cranes his head back, coming out from where he’s been tucked against Sylvain, and moves to kiss him, slow and thoughtful.

* * *

And to the end they go.

Past the rest of the school year. Past the reveal to their classmates (who don’t make nearly as much fuss as Felix was dreading, but far more than he was hoping). Past the Flame Emperor, a much more lethal reveal. Past Dimitri’s descent. Past the Battle of Garreg Mach. Past the disappearance of their professor.

Five years passed. Five years, as the Kingdom unraveled further and further. Five years of defending a border and the idea of a prince proclaimed dead. Five years with no reason to dance, no reason to celebrate.

Then, a reunion. A revival. A return.

* * *

Five years ago, even Felix believed that the night they all came together once more as a unified house would be… joyous. Something to celebrate. But now that they’re here, with Dimitri turned in on himself and Byleth looking like she just woke from a hell of a nap, the mood is significantly darker than first presumed.

Felix supposes war can do that. He also supposes that he wasn’t ready for _ anything _ war could do. How it separates, breaks, and maims anything in its path. Relationships, people, _ now _s. The five years since Edelgard’s attack on Garreg Mach have been full of turmoil. To say that the eastern edges of the Kingdom are tumultuous would be a gross understatement. Territories Fraldarius and Gautier, among others, stay to fight against the western Kingdom that has already deigned to align themselves with the Empire.

Felix devoted himself to the idea that, despite what anyone from Fhirdiad said, there was no way that _ Dimitri _ was dead. The only thing that can kill the boar, especially after his break at the hands of Edelgard’s betrayal, is his own demons. No execution, private or otherwise, would fit his end. Felix holds that belief even now.

He’s right, of course. But he can’t help but ask, as Dimitri stalks away after growling some sort of vitriol at them, _ What happened? _

He wasn’t supposed to be right about _ that._ He wasn’t supposed to predict this fall, he was supposed to _ prevent _ it, yet while Dimitri did who-knows-what to survive, Felix has been… failing to find their prince.

Finding him here, of all places, is both a success and a failure. A success because he found him at all. A failure because he’s too late, and there’s nothing but a beast wearing the shadow of his king.

At least they’re all in one place now, so Felix can keep an eye on him. So Felix can keep an eye on _ everyone _ , whether they want him to or not. His father stays in their territory, holding the line, but _ Felix _ belongs here, where he can make sure he doesn’t lose any of them again.

“I can hear you thinking all the way from the docks.”

Felix pushes from the bridge’s parapet and turns. “That’s your own fault for listening,” he says.

Sylvain smiles. It’s small, tired, and _ goddess, so much has changed, hasn’t it? _ “How could I not?”

He opens his arms.

Felix pauses. Walks into them, trying to rekindle the warm familiarity of the action, to melt away the icy voice that whispers, _ You have other things to do._

“Glad you’re okay,” Sylvain murmurs.

Not everything has to change.

Felix finds himself wanting to curl up in this feeling forever— the feeling that the world isn’t burning around them and it isn’t their duty to put out the flames. But reality’s cold fingers pry him back from that edge of comfort and safety, and he can’t allow himself to ignore anything that’s happening around them. Not if he wants to stay present.

“None of us are okay,” he says when he finally meets honey eyes with his own.

Sylvain still smiles, still keeps that one ray of light out. “Yeah, but we’re not alone, either.”

Felix doesn’t know what to say to that. He knows he _ should _ argue, because of course such hopeful thinking isn’t going to make everything better. Things are not and will never be so simple. But he also doesn’t want his first private conversation with Sylvain in what feels like eons to devolve into… _ that._ Sylvain’s words are such a different brand of sunlight than Annette’s, or Ashe’s. Felix can’t understand how any of them manage to keep bright when… _ everything _ happens like this. “I don’t think all of us realize that,” he murmurs, resisting the urge to rest his head on Sylvain’s shoulder. “Do you think we’re too late?”

Sylvain hums, a hand gliding up and down his back. Soothing the events of the day, smoothing Felix’s thoughts into something more intelligible. It’s been a long, long time since Felix got to feel contact like that. (He had a prince to find, Sylvain had a land to protect, they—) “We found him,” Sylvain says, because of course he knows what Felix is talking about. It’s the thing— the beast— no, the _ man _ — the ** _king_ **— on everyone’s mind. “And we’ve got our professor back. I think the tides are changing.”

“That’s not an answer.”

A pause. “No. It’s not.”

Felix doesn’t want to pry, doesn’t want to dig deeper and deeper until he finds the answer that he knows is there: Sylvain doesn’t know. None of them know if it’s too late. Time will tell, and all he can do is hope that he hasn’t failed completely.

So he keeps quiet and tries not to think too hard about why the tune Sylvain starts to hum sounds so familiar. “I’m rusty,” he says when Sylvain’s hands settle on his waist to set the two of them moving back and forth in an easy, simple sway.

“’S alright, I wouldn’t expect you to keep practice during a war.” Sylvain huffs out a small laugh. “I’d say you could stand on my feet, but those damn boots might actually break them.”

Felix scoffs. “You’re not in the most accommodating attire either.” They’ve yet to change out of the armor in which they met the professor and Dimitri, and Sylvain’s form isn’t nearly as warm when it’s covered in hard metal. Even his gauntlets remain on, putting a very tangible layer between his hands and Felix’s waist.

Awful, really, but there are better things to lament right now.

That’s what knocks him out of this sappy stupor for good, pulling back the slightest bit so that he’s no longer tucked in a safe space he carved out for himself. “We shouldn’t be doing this,” he murmurs, eyes trained on the curve of Sylvain’s neck instead of his eyes. “Not with everything that’s happened, everything that’s _ going _to happen. We shouldn’t waste time on such… frivolous things.”

Sylvain hums and doesn’t point out the fact that Felix has yet to draw away from him. “Yet here you are, out on the bridge and lost in your own head.”

Felix’s features pull down into a frown that he feels weighing down on his entire being. It seeps into his shoulders, down his spine, down to his ankles. He stills. Sylvain stops with him, but he doesn’t pull away.

“You’re right. I should be making myself useful.” Felix would be training, or at least trying to swing his sword at _ something,_ but following Dimitri once more, accompanied by his ravings about rats and hunting and disgust… Felix finds himself slow to pick up a sword again today after _ that._

“Felix—” Sylvain groans, frustration coloring his words burgundy. “That’s not—” He cuts himself off, shakes his head after a long pause as if he himself can’t figure out what it’s _ not._ “It’s late, alright? The wind’s killer up here, you should get inside anyway for some rest. There’s a lot to be done, but it all starts tomorrow.”

Felix sighs, shaking his head slowly. He looks back over Sylvain’s shoulder, to where they all used to sleep so easily. “We’re really back to living in our dorm rooms, huh?”

“Well, if you think you’ll get _ lonely _…”

Felix scoffs, steps back, and Sylvain’s hands fall simply to his sides. When Felix chances a glance up to that familiar, warm face, he sees the flickers of something hurt. “The beds are too small,” he elaborates. “You were already taking up the whole thing when you were 19. Now, we’ve both…” He gestures, vague, and his ears heat up. “We’ve changed.”

But not enough so that they can’t fit together like they just did, puzzle pieces constantly in search of one another. If anything, Felix feels like there’s a space carved out just for him in Sylvain’s orbit— a space kept warm and comfortable, even during a war. Like Sylvain was waiting patiently this whole time.

Felix adds, quietly, “You know what I mean.”

Sylvain snorts at that, and Felix doesn’t even need to spare a glance to know he’s being ogled right now despite it all. “I do. But we’re still human, so.” Sylvain’s head tilts, back to the main monastery. “Bed.”

Felix nods, and the exhaustion of the day’s revelations come crashing in all at once. “Bed.”

He doesn’t often admit it, but Sylvain’s right: they have plenty to do, but it won’t start until tomorrow. For there to even _ be _ a tomorrow, Felix has to invite one in and allow himself to rest, even if only for a few hours.

Rest has been so fleeting in these five years. He doubts that will change any time soon.

* * *

It doesn’t.

To the end they go.

To be fair, Gronder feels like the closest to the end Felix could possibly get. Worlds collide like they were destined to from the beginning of this damned war, yet he still finds he’s not truly ready for it. Life always finds a way to throw something right into your face, jerking you even more awake than you already were like it just splashed cold water up your nose.

Anyway. He watches his father die.

His last words go to Dimitri.

Felix isn’t sure _ how _ he feels about that, so he tries not to acknowledge the feeling at all.

* * *

_ I’m not immune to emotion, you know. Far from it. _

He fails, but he has more important things to do than wallow in _ what if _s and _ why _s.

When people (his _ friends,_ they _ care _ about him) ask him how he’s holding up, he says he’ll be alright. He finds it hard to openly lie about such fickle things as emotions anymore, but that’s not a lie at all: he’ll be alright, or he’ll crack under the weight of the world that presses down on him and whispers _second son, second shield, second choice._

He has learned by now how not to bend to the gravestones slung around his neck.

But his mind still snags on that damning question every day: _ Why me? Why am I the one left? _

Recovery is non-linear, but he makes progress all the same. He refuses to wallow, he never _ wallows. _He’ll just focus on getting stronger, keeping an eye on those who are left. And if sometimes he’s kept up at night by the possible futures flying behind his eyelids (stained with death and repetition and broken promises), that’s his business.

Until it isn’t. Until it starts affecting those around him, and he can’t keep brushing them off with promises to be better or feel more _ alive._ But that’s okay— it’s okay, and he’s learning to accept that.

Step by stumbling step.

* * *

To the end.

Bit by bit, they take back Fhirdiad, take back the Kingdom, take back _ Dimitri,_ all with the help of Byleth. It’s nothing short of a miracle, even if Felix is slow to call things as such.

* * *

The night they win back their home with lights and cries of celebration ringing through the streets, even Felix can not tear himself away from the pride they all share. Dimitri remains shocked by the warm reception he gets from their people, head bent to Byleth as the two discuss something or another.

Felix, on the other hand, watches Annette systematically make her way through the rest of the Lions, dragging them to dance and laugh in a high-ceilinged room of the palace where the lights are grand and the acoustics grander. Music plays, drinks are passed around, things are… _ lighter._ Part of him can not imagine how this can even be allowed. The other part watches Annie and Mercedes laugh as they dance to a quick beat and thinks, _ Maybe we need this._

He doesn’t bother hiding a smile, though he can’t figure out the feeling behind it. There’s pride there, of course there is, but there’s also a keen sense of relief that feels like cold water on your tongue after a long march. That everyone still has the capacity to celebrate their victory, that they can still set down the anchors tied around their ankles and float across the floor.

_ Frivolous,_ is the word his mind tries to apply to all of this. But no, not frivolous. This is only a little less necessary than rations: hope.

He snorts at the thought, nipping that romanticized thought in the bud.

“Something funny?” It’s Annette, having ended up at his side. She’s flushed pink and pleasant, a wry grin on her face even when Felix raises an eyebrow at her.

He says, “You’re enjoying yourself.”

Annette’s features pinch into a scrunched nose, narrowed eyes. “And that’s funny to you?”

“Not funny. It’s a relief.”

She— she doesn’t know what to do with that, if the double blink she shoots at him says anything. “Y’know,” she muses, “you don’t _ have _ to sit out. I could—”

“No way, Annette.”

There’s a long-suffering groan. Annette even dares to stick her tongue out at him, pout on her lips. “No, of course not. I’m not the one responsible to pull you out of your corner tonight.”

Felix holds up two fingers. “One: I’m not even in a corner. Two: No one’s going to— _ gah!"_

There’s an arm around his middle, pulling him back into a warm chest and setting a vicious blush burning over his face, down his neck, to his shoulders— “Is he being stubborn, Annette?”

Felix scowls and cranes his head to glare at a pair of dancing eyes. “Ass,” he mutters, cutting his gaze back to the ground.

Annette smoothly speaks over him. “He thinks he’s above our celebrations.” She speaks in the kind of tone that sound premeditated, a lilt to her words that’s almost definitely accompanied by a sloped smile. (Felix checks: he’s right.)

“I’m _ not— _”

Felix can _ hear _ the pout in Sylvain’s voice when he says, “Oh, that’s no good. Someone should knock him down a peg, huh?”

Yes, this was definitely planned. These redheads will be the death of him.

“Don’t you dare,” Felix says as Annette nods solemnly and responds, “I’ll leave you to it.”

She damn near spins away, an honest-to-Seiros skip in her step that leaves Felix grumbling, the tips of his ears going red as Sylvain clicks his tongue. “You realize this is a _ happy _ night, right?” he asks.

“I’m happy. Doesn’t mean I have to fling myself around the room.”

“Fe, if you’re doing _ that,_ I don’t think you knew how to dance from the beginning. Which is bullshit, because I’m the one who taught you to dance properly.”

“No one’s dancing _ properly,"_ Felix says, ignoring the other objection: _ you didn’t even teach me._ “Look at Annie, I’m surprised she’s not dizzy from having Dedue whirl her around like that.”

“But she had a smile on her face the whole time.”

_ And,_ Felix adds silently, _ Dedue was no different._ “Maybe.”

“You really don’t want to dance?”

“Are you going to leave me alone if I say I don’t?”

“If you tell me to get lost, yeah.” Sylvain nuzzles into his hair, nose puffing out a laugh. “We’re _ home,_ I feel like basking in the moment.”

Home. That’s a weighty word, considering neither of them actually came from Fhirdiad. But with how often Felix visited with his father, how often he used to count the days between it and his own territory when he tried to calculate the next time he’d see his brother, he supposes it is something like a home. It doesn’t _ feel _ like that, though. It’s the heart of their nation and the heart of so many memories before everything went to hell the first time (back when he had a brother, back when he had a _ father _ ), but it’s not _ Fhirdiad _ that’s lifting Felix’s spirits right now. Not entirely.

It’s how Dimitri’s shoulders have lowered, just a little bit. It’s the gentle hand Byleth lays on their king’s arm. It’s how Annette beams across the room, how Ashe meets her grin when she pulls him out to dance. It’s Mercedes’s laughter like pleasant bells floating just above the music, Ingrid’s honest smile (nothing like the battle-hardened stoicism she has developed), Dedue’s dancing eyes as he winds down from his probably dizzying bout with Annette.

It’s Sylvain, steady by Felix as he has been since they reunited at the monastery.

He says, “Annette won’t let me live it down if I stay here all night.”

“Probably not,” Sylvain agrees. He’s still pressed against Felix with not a care in the world that anyone can see them, arm still snug around his waist. “But since when have you cared what she thinks?”

Felix chooses not to answer that, considering the tone in Sylvain’s voice suggests he already knows the answer. “Alright.”

“Alright?”

“I’ll dance with you.”

Sylvain hums, obviously content with the outcome of things, and he comes to stand by Felix’s side, arm crooked. “Shall we?”

Felix rolls his eyes, but takes the offered elbow anyway. “Don’t push it.”

Sylvain laughs, leading them somewhere more… open. With more eyes on them. Felix fights the urge to look around, knowing that no one’s staring at them like he thinks they are. No one cares. They’re all celebrating, too busy enjoying the fact that there’s something to celebrate at all. The return of their king, the return to their capitol. A turning tide.

“Things are looking up,” Sylvain says, setting them into a waltz that’s familiar and also very much _ not _, because Felix distinctly remembers there being more of a structure to the steps and rhythm. This is just… spinning, working their way across the floor, enjoying themselves.

It’s fun. He understands Annie’s enthusiasm more, now.

“We have a chance to see the end of this after all,” Sylvain continues.

“You can’t tell me you thought we wouldn’t,” Felix says. He’s almost certain he’s taking Sylvain’s words far more seriously than Sylvain himself is— _ don’t tell me you thought we wouldn’t make it. We’d crawl out the other side of this even if I had to drag you with me. _ “A little macabre, don’t you think?”

Sylvain smiles, enigmatic and easy. “Nah, I just thought this wouldn’t end. It’s hard to picture an end to all of this, but… I want to see it. I want us to have an after. All of us.”

Felix chances a glance around them. Annette has Ashe in her thrall now, the two spinning and laughing until she stumbles and falls into his chest. There’s a brief pause, then they start laughing all over again. Mercedes has coaxed Ingrid out for a dance, radiating pleasantness while Ingrid focuses on her footwork. Dedue has joined Dimitri and Byleth, a small smile on his face as he says something that sets the trio into excited chatter.

And there are others, so many others, just… enjoying themselves.

“An after,” he muses.

“Well, yeah. Haven’t you ever thought about what you’re going to do when this ends?”

Felix raises an eyebrow at Sylvain. “You just said you couldn’t imagine such things until now.”

“Well, I didn’t think—” Sylvain notably cuts himself off and shrugs, making a thoughtful little noise. “I’ve thought about what I’d want to do.”

“Really.”

“Really.”

Felix tries to think about anything he’s imagined in the future, but he comes up… unsurprisingly empty-handed. “I can’t think of anything,” he says, voice edging on a whisper.

Sylvain ducks his head closer just to hear him. “Nothing? No plans for your territory, or your status, or—”

“Sylvain,” Felix says, feeling the beginnings of a bristle along his spine. “I don’t waste my time worrying on such things.”

Honeyed eyes flicker into something more… intent. Analyzing, like he’s trying to figure out a puzzle. But just like that, it’s gone again, and he says, “It doesn’t have to be worry, Fe.”

“Your list sounds very worrying.”

“Didn’t mean it to be.” Sylvain squeezes his hand, turns them about. “I’ll ask you about it later, alright?”

“You haven’t told me what _ you _ want to do.”

A wink. “That part’s secret.”

Felix feels his heart spin just as they do, trapped behind his ribs and beating a little too quickly. “It’s not fitting for us to keep secrets,” he says, though there’s no real heat in it.

“I’ll tell you once you have something, too. Promise. Call it a trade.”

“Hm.” Felix’s smile comes as a surprise, tiny and genuine. “Better not disappoint me, Sylvain.”

“Oh, come on! You trust me, right?”

The words are out before Felix can stop them, honest and blunt: “So much that it scares me.”

Sylvain visibly melts, grin going crooked and enamored, eyes warm on Felix’s. “I won’t let you down,” he says. Then, a flash— an idea. “Well, actually—”

Felix doesn’t have a chance to ask him what’s up his sleeve before he’s sinking to the ground in a dip, the breath leaving his lungs in a gasp. Sylvain’s got this big, dumb grin on his face like he just told a joke so awful only Dimitri could appreciate it, and he even has the nerve to waggle his eyebrows at him.

Felix can’t keep a glare on his face. Each attempt slides from his grasp, leaving him dazed and stuck in a severe case of déjà vu as he realizes that yes, it’s still a little hard to breathe when Sylvain’s _ close _ like this. When his mouth is right there.

_ But,_ he thinks as he cranes his head up, meeting those lips with his own, _ this time there’s no ‘what if.’ _

* * *

To the end.

It looms over their heads, lingers in each of Felix’s waking moments. _ This is almost done. This is where we choose our fate. _

He still hasn’t figured out what he wants his to be.

* * *

One night, a day out from the finale, Sylvain cards his fingers through Felix’s hair as he tries to work a braid into it. It has become one of his new hobbies to ignore the war for just a little bit— learning what styles look good on Felix, and how to make them a reality. (_ It’s hard _ , he said once, _ because everything looks good on you _. He still tries anyway.)

“Fe,” he prompts quietly, and Felix knows the question before he asks it: “Do you have an after, yet?”

Felix tries painfully hard not to stiffen. “I don’t,” he says, equally quiet and too honest for comfort. They’re in a tent, away from any sort of prying eyes or ears. In this space, he can be quiet, and Sylvain can still hear him. There’s peace, in this small sanctuary.

“We’re almost done with this,” Sylvain says, and his tone suggests mere conversation but there’s something deeper, something that weighs down his fingers as he weaves strands of hair together behind Felix. “You sure?”

“I don’t like my options.”

Sylvain’s hands still slowly, and he reaches to pull a lock of hair back behind Felix’s shoulder, making a spot to rest his chin. “It’s not about options, you just… pick something. That’s the beauty of it. You get to _ choose."_

And yes, Felix _ loves _ the sound of that, but… “I might not even walk out of Enbarr.”

That’s when Sylvain’s arms wrap around his waist, pulling him back against his chest. “So you’re not thinking about it.” His tone goes flat.

“I’ve thought about it,” Felix protests.

“So what’s motivating you? What’s going to make sure you walk out of there alive?”

“Sylvain, nothing can promise that. _ No one _ can promise that.”

That seems to sober him, but he doesn’t let go. Nor does he pull away, voice soft and right by Felix’s ear when he murmurs, “I know.”

It’s a quiet admission that settles a heavy silence over them. Heavy enough to suffocate, weighing hard on Felix’s chest until he reaches to rest his hands over Sylvain’s own and… sits there. Because he’s still not good at comforting. Not like this. Not when the truth of the situation is right there.

“It's you, y’know.”

Felix whispers, “What was that?”

“It's you.” Sylvain tilts his head, buries his nose in Felix’s collar and takes a slow breath in, out. “My after. Everyone has a part but… you're the one I want to share it with. All of it.”

Felix feels his heart twist and spin in his chest, fluttering unevenly as he hears what he has suspected (and hoped for). He can’t respond to that— not with words, not quickly enough. There’s too much to consider— their bloodlines, the societal expectations— and as quickly as the thought passes through his mind, it dissipates in the wake of a resounding _ Who cares?_

He turns his head to press a soft kiss into Sylvain’s hair. “I love you,” he says. Quiet, thoughtful, the only thing he can think to say right now.

“Then don’t talk about death. Don’t scare me like that. I won’t talk about it anymore if you don’t.” Sylvain shakes his head minutely against Felix’s neck, his hair brushing against his skin. “You’re coming out of this alive, and I’m coming with you. To the end— that won’t be ours. I refuse.”

An eternity later, he says it back: “I love you, too.”

“Okay,” Felix says, turning, maneuvering to whisper the words into his mouth over and over and over until neither of them can think much further than the feeling of each other, sharing air and warmth and hope. “Okay, Sylvain, okay.”

* * *

They’re left with the aftermath, but that’s not on anyone’s mind as the din in Enbarr grows almost horrifically loud. Felix watches, with the rest of their army, as Dimitri and Byleth emerge from the palace. While the rest of the army cheers, screams, bursts his ears with the relief and elation of a war hard-won, he turns and dives into the fray looking for a familiar face.

It’s hard to keep track of anything, but Felix feels like he has the smallest of hopes at finding Sylvain because of that bright red hair of his. Because, no, he doesn’t allow himself to think that in the brief moment he let Sylvain out of his line of sight, he got himself hurt. That’s not how their story ends. He refuses.

Thankfully, he’s a foot soldier. He’s quick on his feet, able to navigate around throngs of people easily, with only enough shoving to get by (he doesn’t bother with apologies, considering _ they’re _ blowing his ears out). He shouts, yells, screams over the roar of victory to be heard, hoping to hear an echo back of his own name. Who knows where the idiot could have ridden off, considering he’s got a fucking horse to get him around everywh—

_"Felix!"_

There.

It’s just navigation, now. Echolocation, maybe— shout a name, get his back. Over and over, closer and closer, his cloak snapping at his back with each quick turn and stop he makes as he tries to find the impossible man. It becomes obvious that he’s looking for something— a very obvious _someo__ne _— and people start moving out of his way after they hear the joint cries of their names. Felix should probably thank them (and he does, in his head) but his voice is better spent finding Sylvain.

He turns his head and— _ there._ Behind yet another now-shifted soldier, that shock of hair and stupidly tall silhouette and…

Well, Felix is launching himself forward before he can finish the thought. Sylvain gets the message as well, a brilliant grin taking its rightful place on his face as he opens his arms wide to catch the projectile named Felix Hugo Fraldarius with an _ oof _ and a spin, carrying out the leftover momentum in a dizzying twirl.

Felix hears a whistle. He ignores it in favor of refamiliarizing himself with Sylvain’s laugh, fighting its way through his breastplate along with his gasps for air because the genius has been running in _ heavy-ass _ armor looking for _ Felix _—

“Calm down,” Felix admonishes, pulling back to sandwich Sylvain’s face in his hands, the heat of skin finding its way through the material of his gloves. “Shut up, breathe for a second.” He’s panting, too, but it’s nowhere near as harsh. He looks around. “Where the fuck is your horse?”

“I thought you told me to shut up?” Sylvain says, sounding much more delighted than he does frustrated. He’s still got his arms around Felix, keeping him at least two inches off the ground and smashed up against his armor as he catches his breath. When he does, he sets Felix down and scratches his chin, looking around. “Uh… Dunno where she went, actually. But come on, do you know how hard it is to navigate through all these people with a horse? I wasn’t about to trample someone during our victory!”

Felix doesn’t allow himself to drift too far. He’s stuck in the pull now, hands back up to Sylvain’s face to pull him down, gasping breath or not, for a kiss to solidify… _ all _ of this.

An end. A beginning. A now. A future.

Fuck, a _ future._

Sylvain’s got his hands on Felix’s waist, now, swaying from foot to foot as if he can’t even bear to keep himself still right now. He’s radiating relief and giddiness and _ love,_ and Felix feels like he shows the same in his own way. How his shoulders relax, the quickness of his breath, the curve of his grin that only Sylvain can be sure to coax out of him, after five years of war.

“We did it,” Sylvain says, a relieved laugh still trembling the edges of his words. _"__We did it,_ Fe.”

Felix can’t think of a good response right away, so he pulls him down for one more kiss. Two. Three. He keeps a hand around the back of Sylvain’s neck, keeping him there so their foreheads press together. “Now we’ve got to clean up the mess,” he says, eyes closed and voice heard by Sylvain and Sylvain alone in the crowded city. “The aftermath.”

“Shh.” Sylvain keeps them rocking back and forth. _"__Now,_ Fe. Let’s enjoy the now before we worry about everything that comes after.”

“But—” Felix chokes on his own words as they pile up, heavy and gummy in his throat. “I want to talk about the after— Sylvain, the _ after."_

“What are you on about?” Sylvain pulls back, and Felix resists the urge to chase him as his eyes flutter open to meet a confused honey gaze. “Is something wrong?”

“No, _ no."_ Damn it all, it’s been over _ five years _ since his stumbling Goddess Tower confession, he should be better with words by now. He _ is _ , that much is obvious when he looks at Sylvain and realizes there’s only one thing he wants to say, one thing he knows he _ can _ say while holding his gaze. “Sylvain, I want an after with you.”

…

“Felix, you—?” Sylvain cocks his head, blinking. Something hopeful dawns over his face. Tentative, wishful.

“The war’s _ over,_ now we can live our lives and go back, but— home’s with you.” With each word he says, Felix realizes he could probably have chosen a better place to do this. A better time. Perhaps he’d even take a knee, but he isn’t certain Sylvain would hear him over the din if he did. “It always has been. Something to return to, to look for, to count on. To the end— that’s what you promised, back then. I’m meeting you there.”

Realization dawns over Sylvain’s face suddenly, like someone has blared a warhorn right in his face and sent his eyes into wide saucers, mouth agape as he breathes, _"__Felix."_

_"To__ the end,_ Sylvain. Stay by my side, and keep our promise.” Saints, he still hasn’t said the words yet has he? They come out in a rush then: “Mar—”

Or, they try to, but the cold metal of Sylvain’s gauntlet presses against his mouth and he startles, blinking up at him. It’s quiet (or, as quiet as it can be), and Felix watches the harsh rise and fall of Sylvain’s chest as Sylvain figures out where to go from here. _ Surely he’s not still out of breath. _

He’s got one of those shocked-silly expressions on his face, like a blindfold just got tugged off and he’s seeing the world in color once more. Felix watches Sylvain’s mouth slope into a smile, watches his eyes crinkle with the motion.

“You _ ass,"_ Sylvain says. “That’s supposed to be my line.”

Felix makes a face. “And _why_ is that?”

“I’m taller.” Sylvain’s grin morphs into something more mischievous, a teasing lilt to his voice. "Duh."

Felix shoves at his chest. He takes it with a laugh and a faux stumble backwards. “I take it back anyways,” Felix says, face heated because _ now _ is when he finds embarrassment in his words: when Sylvain stops him in his tracks and _ forces _ him to wait for the realization to set in. “You’re terrible.”

“You can’t take it back if you haven’t even _ said it."_

Felix glares at Sylvain. There’s no heat there— if anything, it’s a slow, sweet warmth that melts the faux-stern set of Sylvain’s jaw.

“C’mon, I’ll let you say it.”

Felix huffs, looks to the sky as if the goddess herself will be there to encourage him. “Sylvain,” he says, voice exasperated. When he looks back down, though, at love and promises and a future, he can’t keep up the frustration. He merely asks, quiet and direct: “Will you marry me?”

Their after begins like this: dancing to silent songs over the din of a crowd. Surviving. Loving _ Living._ It begins with the end of a war. It begins with the feeling that wells up in Felix’s chest, sweet and warm and bright, when Sylvain says, “Always.”

And that, Felix decides, is more than enough for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> catch me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/astronomicallie)!
> 
> thanks for waiting, y'all. happy thanksgiving if you celebrate, and happy "regular ol' thursday" if you don't!
> 
> and as always, thanks for kudos/comments/etc., you're all lovely


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